


mayday, mayday (death needs a surgeon)

by awfulbutsexy



Series: Bless the Bleeder [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Complete, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:00:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 56,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26905516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awfulbutsexy/pseuds/awfulbutsexy
Summary: A brutal act of kindness pulls an anonymous woman into the eye of Gotham’s storm.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Bless the Bleeder [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2123214
Comments: 77
Kudos: 105





	1. Chapter 1

It was nearly eleven. The lounge was small and warm and dimly lit, humming with a low purr of conversation. Joan sat alone, with her back to the crowd. She watched the scene in the long mirror above the bar.

This was a new venue. Uptown. Nestled under a high-end hotel. She picked a different bar after every job. Lowered the risk of detection. The patrons here were mostly men. Business types, bankers, lawyers, yuppies from out of town staying at the hotel, out looking for women that didn’t smell like their wives.

She moved her hair onto her shoulder, her bare back flashing like scales in dark water. A man in the corner glanced away from his conversation. One gullible fish. She peered back at him, the slightest suggestion playing at the corner of her mouth, and watched as the man took a long hard gulp of his drink. She turned away, still feeling the heat of his eyes on the back of her neck.

†

Her fingers moved over his skin, feeling the steady thrumming rhythm of his blood. Her eyes swept over the lines and muscles of his back, rising and flexing minutely as he breathed. Healthy, she noted. She smiled slightly at the spatter of freckles at the base of his neck before she checked her wrist for the time. Three hours. That was plenty.

The sharp aroma of antiseptic cut into the still, sultry air of the bathroom and his flesh, clean and ready, split like silk beneath her scalpel. She was ready with a pad of gauze to mop up the blood as it spilled from his side, thick and dark like syrup. Her hands moved with memory. Right then left, pulling apart the flesh, pushing past the muscle and the ice she’d packed into the body cavity, pausing to reach for more gauze or another tool from the tray she’d placed beside the body. She didn’t shudder at the wet warmth as she slipped her hand into his body. Not like she used to.

The man had been so willing. He had not even lasted five minutes. Joan could remember the insistent pressure of his hand on the small of her back as he took the drink she offered, a pressure that had built as he led her through the hotel lobby and up to the room he’d reserved. He was unconscious by the time she closed the door to the bedroom, like clockwork. Once she’d stripped the body and flushed the kidneys with the necessary solution, she’d prepared the space, lining the bathroom floor with sheets of plastic. The dress she’d worn to the bar – short and wine colored – she hung in the closet. The scrubs she donned instead were clean and a familiar blue. The man – Craig, his name was, maybe - lay on his side on the covered tiles and she knelt beside him.

Moving the body was most difficult, as it always was. The man was lean, thankfully, but unconsciousness had rendered him heavy as a stone. Joan had struggled with frustration. She thought she’d have built some muscle by now. At least, she had not had to call Sasha for help; she hated having him around during a job. Sasha, who was squeamish around blood, who lingered, who didn’t understand why she didn’t want to flirt and banter with him while wrist-deep in a body.

She pushed the thought of him away and closed her eyes for a moment to refocus. The light in the bathroom was low and romantic and fantastically inadequate for surgery, however simple a procedure. She could feel the seedling pains of a headache in the back of her head. She was glad her work would be over soon and she would not have to strain for much longer. Pausing to clear away some blood and readjust the grip on her instrument, she spotted the ureter and followed the thin pink tube to where it curved up and disappeared into the hollow of the right kidney. Several quick incisions and she set aside her scalpel. The kidney, plump and brown, fit squarely in her palm as she lifted it gently from the body. It weighed almost nothing and she handled it carefully, like a small bird. She stood up and stepped nimbly to the bathroom counter, where the LifePort was already running, ready to receive the organ.

The machine had been expensive and a pain in the ass to obtain. This sort of equipment raised eyebrows, even amongst criminals and backroom traders. But kidneys fetched a high price on the market and were difficult to transport. She was certain whatever money she had spent she would earn back, perhaps tenfold. Once the organ was stored properly, she finished with the body. The surgery would leave a small scar. The man was not married. There would be nothing to explain to a wife.

Again, she moved the body, cursing under her breath, careful not to knock his head against anything. The tub was already full of ice. The note she’d written earlier, instructing him to call the paramedics once he awoke, was placed beside the tub along with the cellphone she’d found in his slacks.

Joan knelt back down in the center of the room and cleaned her tools meticulously, alone with the man, regarding him silently. No one had ever woken up before she had the chance to leave. Of course, the drugs were strong and the recipe stable; the odds were very slim. But still, she watched him warily and her pulse quickened with alarm every time the ice settled and moved beneath his body.

When she was finished, she changed out of the scrubs and gathered her things mechanically, folding up the plastic, setting each instrument in its proper place inside her briefcase. She touched nothing else. There would be no evidence. Nothing to prove that she had been there. Except for the scar under his ribs. She left without turning out the bathroom light. A simple mercy. At least he would not have to wake up in the dark.


	2. Chapter 2

There were certain parts of Gotham that only seemed to appear at night. Visions of filth and blood, waxing and waning underneath the street lights like a gruesome mirage, a fever dream of cheap ecstasy and violence. A neighborhood without name or number, found only by accident or by memory, a destination for the desperate and the diseased and the fashionably unhinged. Joan knew the way. Nine streets, swamped with decay, hobbled tenements and houses wheezing with dust and dull air, shops with blackened and broken windows, bricks stained black with age and tar and blood. She called it the Inferno; a private joke. The streets were still cobbled. It was a black hole of a place, catching light, bending it, consuming it, expelling nothing but more shadow. Some people swore that even the sun turned its face away from such a place. Joan couldn’t say for sure because she never stayed for long. She did her business and left.

Mason had asked to meet her at three. Just past peak hours. It was considerate of him. There’d be less commotion in the streets. The men would’ve already come and paid for the women and the children sometimes too and the fiends would be settling fitfully into their highs. There were still cars creeping through the streets, slow as funeral processions, men standing on apartment stoops and perched on fire escapes like vultures, women pacing on the corners, flashing in and out of the orange lamp light. Joan could see the whites of their eyes as she passed, glowing in the dark, the low glint of their teeth smiling or sneering at her. She did not stare back. She kept her pace, one hand clasped tightly on the handle of the LifePort and the other in her pocket, fingering the dull spine of her scalpel.

Any of the allure she’d used to catch the unfortunate man in the bar she had shed hours ago. Her face was clean. The long fox colored wig put away. She’d wrapped herself up hidden beneath a secondhand overcoat. But she knew why they watched her. They could smell her flesh like wolves, could see past her affected plainness. She kept walking and nobody stopped her.

Mason operated out of an abandoned restaurant near the end of the block. Joan mounted the familiar steps and pushed through the green door, paint peeling and wood chipped with bullet fragments and scratch marks from the hungry dogs that hung about, lured by the lingering smell of food and blood. The front room of the restaurant was crowded with mismatched chairs and small square tables, empty and occupied, and the air was choked with the sweet smell of foreign tobacco. Men came here for shelter from the night and lingered until morning, drinking from bottles they brought themselves, talking and smoking. It was a popular place because Mason was fair and civil and nobody had to go out back to piss because the bathrooms worked. Nobody looked up as she moved furtively along the edge of the room towards the kitchens.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light, so bright it was almost green, glaring down on the long stainless steel tables and white linoleum tiles. Mason kept the kitchen impeccably clean. This was where the hand-offs took place and sometimes the transfers themselves. The stoves and the cabinets had been pulled out and removed and the empty walls, scrubbed clean with bleach and lye soap, were lined with trays of surgical equipment, lamps and machinery. Beyond the kitchen there was the containment room, separated by thick pieces of plastic. The containment room was where the organs were kept, floating in sterile bags of preservation solution, packed into freezers and refrigerators stocked with vials of fluid and medicine and blood of all types. The machines were always running, preserving Mason’s trade; Joan reckoned he must have siphoned off more than half of the electricity available in the entire neighborhood to keep his operation going.

Mason emerged in the doorway then, the hardened features of his dark face blurred behind the plastic. He smiled and the expression seemed warped and eerie in the light. “Welcome back, Miss Joan.” He walked through the entrance, the plastic clapping shut behind him, and a sudden burst of cold air followed after him, bleeding into the kitchen from the containment room.

“Mason,” Joan nodded and met him at the table in the center of the room. She set the LifePort down carefully and felt the weight of it leave her arm; she’d been gripping it protectively all night long.

He sighed, pulling the machine towards him for a closer look. He lifted the lid and it gave a little hiss. “This is good work, Joan. You make the best cuts. Clean.” He smiled at her again and Joan could see the black edges of his teeth. “I bet those men don’t feel a thing.”

“Let’s hope so,” she murmured and returned the gesture with considerably less enthusiasm. She folded her hands neatly on the table and shifted her weight. Mason understood and closed the lid of the LifePort, picking up the machine and moving back towards the containment room. He disappeared for a moment and she could hear the low whine of metal hinges, doors opening and slamming shut with a cold finality. When he reappeared there was a bundle of cash in his hands. Joan took the cash and stowed it neatly in her pocket. She no longer needed to watch Mason count out the bills. She trusted him now, not to stint her at least.

“You putting that money to good use?”

He knew where she came from. He had asked her once on a good day and she had answered truthfully, in a rare moment of confidence.

“I don’t know what else I’d use it for,” she replied wryly.

He scratched his head. “Hang around down here enough and you can get some ideas, I suppose.”

“Can’t have that.” She turned to leave.

“Goodnight Miss Joan. Be safe out there.”

“Goodnight Mason. You’ll be hearing from me soon.”

There was smoke rising in the restaurant. More men had ambled in and the noise was low and relentless. She felt suddenly exhausted, cast into the dark with these half-way strangers. She ducked her head and slunk against the walls, careful not to catch anyone’s eye. But the door swung opened as she reached for it and the shadow that fell over her was familiar and impossibly tall.

“Joan.”

She could hear the smile in his voice, the accent she couldn’t place and the imprecise roll of his vowels. Sasha always sounded a little sick.

“Sasha,” she nodded curtly, “I was just leaving.” She tried to side-step him but his presence seemed to fill the doorway and swallow up all the empty space. Her rudeness went unnoticed.

“I haven’t seen you for weeks.” His lips puckered, curling up under the hard angle of his nose. “Makes a guy worry, you know?”

Another faceless shadow attempted to push his way past Sasha, jostling him from the doorway with a grunt. Joan saw opportunity in his distraction and slipped behind him. He was quick though and followed her out of the restaurant, catching her by the sleeve. She turned on him with a look that made him draw back immediately and raise his hands in a gesture of desperate amity.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, shrinking under her gaze. She could see him more clearly now for the street lamps. The bulk of his suit jacket, one size too big, his black hair too long, his green eyes, sad and sunken in his face, pupils blown wide. There were specs of white still clinging to end of his nose and his lip was split in the corner of his mouth. The cut was dark and hard, healing. Her expression softened and she reached up gently to brush the loose white away from his face and off the lapels of his jacket. He blushed and turned his face away, pursing his lips again.

“That’s new.” She motioned at his lip and he laughed.

“Do you like it? Picked it up just the other day,” He leaned back on his heels to look at her, so dramatic was the difference in height between them, “So - you stop in at Mason’s for business?”

“No, just for fun” she replied and glanced away from him and up the street. It was unwise to linger for so long on the street like this.

“Want a drink? I’ll buy.” He seemed oblivious to her uneasiness. “Unless you’ve got another errand for like a gallbladder or some shit like that.” He was smiling again, warming to her despite her coolness. The expression suited his face; he smiled at her like she was sunshine, as if he hadn’t seen the sun for years.

“How about you walk me to the train?” He ran a shaky hand through his untidy mess of hair and shrugged with a contrived nonchalance. They started off together, turning down an alleyway that would take them away from the lingering raucous of the streets and eventually spit them out on the edge of the Inferno. Sasha fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette and offered one to Joan. She refused, pulling up the collar of her coat around her face before shoving her hands into her own pockets. The alleyways in the Inferno were a maze of brick, broken glass, and steam, collecting in the gutters and carrying up the stench of trash and piss and rancid blood. The passages were mostly deserted; not even the lowlifes could stand the hellish reek.

“I don’t know why you still work with Mason,” Sasha began, taking a long drag from his cigarette “He’s small time. The mob is bound to buy him out anyway. Then you could pull in some real profit.”

Joan frowned behind the half-mask of her stiff collar. “Are they paying you to plug for them now, Sasha?”

He shifted in the jaunty frame of jacket. “I’m just reading the signs is all.”

“Not interested.”

“You’ll get off your high horse eventually. It’s only a matter of time before they come for Mason’s operation and then they come for you.”

“That sounded like a threat, Sasha.”

He pursed his lips and blew smoke from his nose. “I didn’t mean it like that…”

He fell silent and after a moment she nudged him gently just below the ribs. He smiled again, blushing, and settled, tucking away his apologies and tossing out the conversation with his dying cigarette. They walked quietly then, picking their way through the garbage and the rubble, alone except for a figure some yards ahead of them, squatting down and slumped pathetically against the alley wall. Joan had clocked him as soon as they had turned down the corridor. Sasha seemed oblivious. The man – Joan was sure it was a man - was faceless, formless in the dark. He was shaking and spitting and the sound he made was low and wet, like there was something caught in his throat. She felt for the scalpel in her pocket and kept her head down as she and Sasha walked by.

The man reached out suddenly, blindly, and grabbed the hem of her coat just as she had passed him. With unexpected force, he pulled her to a halt. She was ready with the little weapon in her pocket but Sasha was quicker, planting his foot on the man’s chest and kicking him away. He fell against the wall, coughing and shaking like some freakish animal. She stared down at him, at once fascinated and disturbed by his wretchedness before Sasha pulled her away, toward the mouth of the alleyway.

“Are you alright?” he asked, a little too loud, the panic evident in his voice. “These junkies, I swear, they’re a goddamn epidemic –" “I’m fine.” His pace was too quick and the hand clasping her shoulder felt heavy. She slowed and shrugged him off. They had reached the end of the alley and they stood now in a swatch of dingy orange light, trying to breathe again. Joan realized she was still holding the scalpel in her hand and put it away quickly.

“I’m fine. Just startled.”

“Is that your blood?”

She followed the line of his finger to where he pointed and felt the wetness pooling in the hollow at the base of her throat. She touched it and held her hand to the light. The blood looked black. She glanced over her shoulder, down the alleyway, squinting into the darkness. The man had stopped coughing. He had hoisted himself upright and was staring back at her, his face illuminated faintly with the light. The scream caught in her throat.

The gash ran across his mouth, curving up crookedly along his cheeks. Bad work, cruel work. Whoever had done it had used a straight razor and they had wanted him to feel it. There was dry blood in his hair and on his clothes, and every time he moved his lips to groan or cough, fresh blood would spring forth, pushing through the split flesh and dribbling down his chin. They stared at one another and his eyes seemed to glow, iridescent and hollow like the eyes of a dog. She watched as he opened his mouth to say something and his cry dissolved into a gurgling splatter of spit and blood. He hung his head, as though defeated, and turned away from the light.

Before she knew what she was doing, she was walking back towards him. She felt Sasha try to catch the sleeve of her coat but she pulled away. She walked briskly, still breathing hard from the shock, and when she came to the bleeding man she knelt beside him. Without fear, she reached out and took his chin, trying carefully to guide his face into the light so she could examine the wound. He flinched away from her touch. Closer now, she could see he was reeling. His eyes flickered wildly over her face without focus and his breath came in ragged gasps.

“He’s in shock.” She raised her voice to Sasha but he was already standing beside her. She looked up into his face. “He can’t stay here. Help me move him.”

Sasha made an exasperated sound from the back of his throat. “What? Move him?”

“We’ll take him to Mason’s.”

He was quiet for a moment, considering her suggestion. Joan was staring at him. The man, still writhing on the ground, was staring up at him too. Both of them waiting. Sasha stamped his foot a little and exhaled sharply before crouching down beside her. “Fuck.” He took the man by the left arm and she took the right and they heaved him up from the ground. It was a difficult position with Sasha being so tall but they managed. The man could barely stand but he made the slightest effort to be helpful, moving his legs weakly as they carried him back down the passageway.

“Christ,” Sasha whimpered, “Fuck, he reeks.”

“Shut up, Sasha. Keep moving. I can’t hold him for much longer.”

Joan counted the doors under her breath as they passed them and when they reached the back entrance to Mason’s, they hurried up to the door. Sasha wrenched one hand loose and threw his fist against the door, once, twice, three times. After a moment, the door swung wide drowning the trio in a flood of blinding white light.

“What the hell is this?” Joan couldn’t see his face for the light, but his voice betrayed all of his furious alarm.

“Hi Mason,” Sasha replied through gritted teeth and readjusted his grip on the man. With a grunt, they carried the man over the threshold, crowding Mason out of the way.

“What’s the meaning of this shit?” he cried, slamming the door shut behind them after casting one final cursory glance out into the alley beyond, “For God’s sake get him into the kitchen. I don’t need contamination in here.”

Sasha and Joan did as they were told and scuttled into the kitchen, lifting the man onto the long steel table. He lay back with a groan, coughing a fresh wave of blood onto his chest. Sasha went green and covered his mouth as he turned away from the table.

“Pull yourself together, Sasha” she hissed, shucking off her jacket and throwing it aside. “I need you right now.” She glanced from Sasha to Mason, who was still standing in the doorway as though hesitant to enter the scene. “Mason, fetch me gauze and some anesthesia. Don’t bother with a mask, I’ll inject him directly. We have to move fast or he’ll drown in all this blood.” The older man was still flustered and he looked upset that he had to take orders but he did as he was told, stepping back into the containment room.

“Sasha, go to the cabinet and get me a sterilized suture thread and needle. And wash your hands first.” She was rolling up her sleeves now and moving to one of the sinks along the wall. Sasha stumbled up beside her and put his hands under the running faucet.

“Joan, I can’t do this,” he muttered, “I feel sick.”

“I need you to be calm so you can assist me.”

“But I can’t -”

“Then leave,” she snapped, scrubbing hard at her hands until the skin was pink, “If you can’t hold it together, then you’re just in the way.” She didn’t wait for his answer, wringing her wet hands and turning away from the sink. Mason reappeared with the supplies she requested and she took the gloves he handed her. She flung the second pair at Sasha which he caught and slipped on without another word. The decision had been made for him.

Joan’s hands were shaking as she slid the needle into the bottle of anesthetic and pulled the plunger. She was still rattled. But the adrenaline would help her focus. She took a few steadying breaths and approached the man on the table. His eyes were rolling again and she could see his skin was pale. He seemed to be floating in and out of consciousness but when she began to push up the sleeve on his left arm, he sprung to life wincing away from her touch and jerking sickly.

Sasha and Mason both moved forward to settle him but she waved them away. She leaned over the man and put a hand on his bloodstained chest. She could hardly see his face for all the blood and wretched flesh. But she swallowed her disgust and tried to be gentle.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I know that you’re in pain,” she soothed, “But I need you to be still so I can help you.” His eyes rolled in his skull and settled on her. They seemed to hook into her, searching for purchase, and his vision began to clear at the sound of her voice. He was delirious with pain but he understood. After a moment, she felt him relax under her hand and she put the needle in his arm. His veins were clean and healthy and she was grateful. She counted down slowly from ten and by four, he had slipped under. She let out a breath she did not know she’d been holding in.

“Sasha, I need soap and water and towels. We need to wash his face.” She glanced up when he did not move. His face was tight with an expression of disgust. “You don’t have to touch him. Just hand me whatever I ask for.” He slunk to the cabinet again, silent and resigned.

“Mason?”

He stepped forward, still tentatively eyeing the man on the table.

“I don’t want anyone coming in and out of here while I’m working.”

“You want me to clear the front room?”

She nodded and took the towel Sasha was offering.

Mason grimaced and tugged roughly at his beard. “The boys won’t like this, Joan.” But he was already crossing the room toward the door.


	3. Chapter 3

When it was finished, she sat alone with Sasha in the deserted front room of the restaurant. Mason paced the aisles of tables and chairs, broom in hand, not looking at them. He was trying very hard not to appear shaken but he was. They all were. Sasha had his color back but his face seemed caved in with an expression of shock. Joan was only tired. She had wanted her night to end many hours ago. And now it was nearly dawn. The sun would be up soon, glaring down into the belly of the Inferno. Maybe.

“I could use that cigarette now, Sasha,” she murmured. He nodded weakly, pulling a crumbled pack from his jacket pocket and selecting one for each of them. He held the lighter to her and she breathed in deeply. It gave her a comfortable buzz, a familiar warmth that rushed up her spine and into her head. She closed her eyes and savored it.

“Are you -?” Sasha began, faintly at first. He cleared his throat to find his voice. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I doubt it.” He fell silent and Joan felt a small pang of guilt for being so short. She could almost admit she felt sorry for him. She had dragged him into this after all. She grimaced “But I’ll humor you.”

“That looked like mob work.”

“You think so?’

He nodded again, his eyes watching the smoke curl up from the end of his cigarette. “That kind of mutilation...it was too specific not to be. Too ritual.”

“So are we talking big time?”

“Loan shark business at the most.”

Joan was silent for a moment, mulling over his words. “Should we worry?”

“No,” Sasha replied with a firm shake of his head, “But he should. He’s marked now. Whoever he is.”

They had searched the man after the procedure was through and found nothing. No ID, no plastic of any kind. Not even a wallet. The man was nobody. Less than nobody, now that the mob had caught up to him.

Joan took another long drag from her cigarette and crushed it into the little ashtray at the center of the table. “I’m going to go check on him,” she murmured, to no one in particular, “And then I’m going to go home.”

“I’ll go with you.” Sasha was out of his chair immediately and she only nodded, too tired to protest. He followed close behind her as she moved through the main room and into the kitchen. He nearly ran into her when she stopped abruptly in the doorway.

The man was gone. All of the cabinets had been opened and raided carelessly. It looked like he’d made off with several bottles of morphine and a box of medical gauze. Besides the blood on the floor and on the table, there was no other trace of him. Joan exhaled, the air leaving her slowly, painfully. She had given him a heavy dose of anesthesia. The kind she used on the job. Nobody was supposed to wake up so soon. In his condition, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he hadn’t woken up at all. And she hadn’t heard a thing. No stumbling, no crashing around. For the first time that night, Joan felt truly afraid.

“What the fuck?” Sasha breathed behind her, startling her with his closeness. She stepped away from him and into the kitchen, looking around. Her coat was still lying on a table beside the wall where she’d thrown it haphazardly in the excitement. Now she could see how much of the man’s blood she had carried away. The coat was ruined. She left it for Mason to throw away.

“Take me home, please.” She turned and started past Sasha back into the restaurant. After lingering for a moment longer, perplexed, he followed her.

†

Eight months passed, precisely eight, and that night became a distant memory. It would come back to her sometimes, in fragments. When she was finishing a job, now more wary than ever of her mark. Whenever she went to Mason’s. She did not dwell on the memories or the impulse that had carried her back to that unfortunate stranger. To think on them gave them unnecessary meaning. But Sasha would bring it up, when he was too drunk to be tactful, which was often enough. He was almost eager to talk about it. The mystery excited him. The macabre of it. So she stopped drinking with him and started sleeping with him again, if only to shut him up. It was a habit she picked up and put down every few weeks out of boredom. Sasha never seemed to mind much.

Joan passed through those months unmoved by what had happened. She took the jobs she liked and earned well. The year had been good to her and she had enough money stored away now to be picky about who and what she worked for. She kept to herself and her business. She fucked Sasha when it pleased her and saw no one else. She got a cat for the company, a weird rescue with a round middle and six toes on each paw.

It was April and she was lying low. There had been a series of investigations lately surrounding the victims of several botched black market surgeries. Amateurs, trying to edge their way into her market. A hazard of the job. Someone was bound to fuck up. The mess was too much for Joan to keep at her pace without detection so she stayed in for a week or so. Plenty of time for the police and the news networks to lose interest. She could use some peace and quiet. She was hardly ever home and she insisted they use Sasha’s place downtown for sex. Her bed was always cold and carefully made.

She had refused to spend any real money on the apartment. It was only a few rooms, with a small kitchen and a fridge that was too big. She lived on the third floor of a walk up in a nameless and unremarkable neighborhood in Gotham. She’d moved in several years ago. She hadn’t brought much with her from Maryland – a couple of suitcases of clothes, medical textbooks – and she kept it organized.

She’d allowed herself two luxuries in the last few months. The first was the cat. The second was a small sophisticated safe box. Too much money in the bank could arouse suspicion so she kept most of the funds separate. At one point she’d been saving up for some end and the job had been “necessary”. But now it was only routine.

The last two years had worn away her determination, tempering any sort of desire for change. She wouldn’t admit to it but the truth was evident and it grew inside of her with every day, with every job, with every dollar she counted and stored away. She hadn’t decided yet how she should feel about it. And if anyone should ask – and if she were willing to answer – she would maintain that it was only temporary. All temporary.

It had been an unremarkable evening. Joan had wine for dinner and fed her leftovers to the cat. She was too restless to eat, too restless to do anything but methodically rearrange the clothes in her closet and pace her apartment. Her body was almost humming with the agitation, feverish with wine and irritation. It had been nearly two weeks now. She wouldn’t be able to stand it for much longer. She needed something, anything to do. She glanced at her cellphone on the edge of the coffee table. _Sasha_.

She wasn’t that desperate. She turned the television on as she passed it, moving for the kitchen and another glass of wine. The news was on and the sound was off but the familiar electric whining of the machine was almost a comfort. Joan took the wine from the fridge and stepped nimbly over the cat, who was hoping all the commotion in the kitchen meant more food. She shooed him away with a gentle prod of her foot and refilled her glass neatly, gripping the neck of the bottle in her fist. When she turned back toward the television, she nearly choked on her first sip.

It was the eyes that gave him away. She recognized them instantly. Dark and deep. Bottomless and flat at the same time. Terrible eyes, animal eyes that glared out at her from the screen, drawing her into the living room. The couch sighed under her weight as she settled in and leaned forward, setting the wine bottle on the floor beside her feet and squinting her eyes through the artificial white glow of the television.

His scars hadn’t healed right. In fact, under all that paint, it looked as if he’d torn the stitches out and let the skin heal itself crudely. Joan frowned and her irritation mounted, turning over in the pit of her stomach. _Hard work wasted on some savage_ …And a criminal too. She was reading the headlines now. He robbed banks. He’d done three or four jobs now and nothing small time either. He liked to mug for the cameras.

“Ballsy” she murmured, watching as the news station played a security tape of the man almost strolling through a bank lobby. He paused to leer up at the camera and then he disappeared, only to reappear again on the far side of the lobby, as the station replayed the footage on an endless loop. They were calling him the Joker. The police were scrambling. The black market scandals were last week’s news, which in Gotham meant it might as well have not been news at all. Joan yielded to the smile creeping over her face.

Her phone vibrated suddenly, shuddering with loud ugly noise. She picked it up just as it was threatening to skitter off the edge of the table. She knew who it was even before she answered it.

“Hello Sasha.”

“Are you watching the news?” He voice was pitched with nerves and cocaine.

“Of course I’m watching the news,” she replied coolly. She remembered the glass of wine in her hand and took a long, slow sip.

Sasha sniffled and choked out a strangled sort of cough. “Fuck…that’s _him_.”

“That’s who?”

“ _Joan please_ ,” he whined, breathing hard into the receiver, “I’m serious. That’s the guy. That fucked up weirdo you brought to Mason’s. Don’t pretend like you don’t remember.”

Joan took another sip of wine, bigger than the first. “Sure, I remember. What does it matter?”

She could almost hear Sasha shudder over the phone. “Everybody’s talking about him. He’s making waves. Those banks he’s hitting? Those are _mob bank_ s.”

“And you’d know all about that, Sasha, wouldn’t you? As their self-employed lap dog. Is that where you’ve been these last few weeks?”

“Yeah, well….” His argument was stifled by a sharp sniffle. There was a pause. “So you’ve missed me?”

He hadn’t really answered her question. “Goodbye Sasha”.

“Do you want me to come over?”

Joan hung up the phone and tossed it back onto the coffee table. She could hardly stand Sasha, less so when he was high. She glanced back at the television and locked eyes with the face leering back at her.

 _Remarkable_.

So he had survived somehow. Perhaps if not for her help. She had certainly saved his life. What was left of it anyway. That night came back to her suddenly. The sight of Mason’s kitchen, empty, slick with blood. The sick, unfamiliar, feeling of surprise. It seemed impossible that he should reappear so suddenly. And with such bravado. She stared at him over the lip of her glass and downed the rest of the wine with a single swallow.

There was a twinge at the base of her skull, a giddy throb of pain. She sank down into the cushion of the couch, the slow smile returning to her lips. The cat leapt up near her feet and curled up, mewling and content. Joan reached down and raised the bottle of wine up from the floor, resting it on her chest. She drank steadily and watched the twitching television shadows on the wall until she fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Mason’s neighborhood was less lively in the daytime, unsurprisingly. Nobody on the streets, no cars full of men shuddering on the corner, just out of sight. The sidewalk was littered with broken glass and cigarette butts and damp paper, the jetsam of last night, soaked in urine and dirty water, clogging up the sewers and sticking like pulp to the curbside. There were only a handful of people on the streets, vagrants sleeping in what little shade they could afford and the drunks just waking up for the evening. A handful of girls were perched on the front steps of one of the many tenement buildings, smoking something between the four of them. They squinted at her, curious, and Joan caught the sweet, skunkish smell of their smoke as she passed.

It was a wet afternoon. No rain, but the air was so dense with moisture you could practically swim in it. Everything seemed to sweat. The buildings, the stone streets, the sidewalks. The sun glared down through a smear of clouds and brown smog, filling the streets of the Inferno with the sort of agonizing light that Joan hated most. The pain was unyielding on her eyes and she had to squint through the overwhelming brightness even with her sunglasses on. Her headache throbbed, pulsing in the muscle of her jaw as she made her way through the maze of streets and alleyways towards Mason’s place.

She had arrived at the restaurant and was mounting the steps when the front door opened suddenly, spilling out a group of darkly dressed men into the white sunlight. There were five of them. Four of them, the larger men, surrounded the fifth, the smallest, caging him with their bulk. Joan stepped aside for them and ducked her head as they passed to conceal her face. She watched from the corner of her eye as the man in the middle of the group stopped to put on his sunglasses. He noticed her then and gave her a once over.

“You lost, sweetheart?”

Her lips twitched. “No.”

He lingered for a moment as if waiting for her to say more. Joan kept her eyes fixed on the ground. She could feel the sun baring down on her back and the sweat gathering on nape of her neck. The man sniffed decidedly and finally moved away, his friends lumbering along behind him. She watched them leave until they reached the end of the block, at which point she turned and hurried up the steps and into the building.

Joan was immediately greeted with the stale stench of cigarettes and what sounded like Pet Shop Boys mewling weakly out of the speaker system. But it was cool inside and the gloom was a welcome relief for her eyes. Mason was sitting in the back of the room near the kitchens. She took off her sunglasses and let her eyes adjust as she approached his table. He had his eyes closed and his elbows on the table, with one hand under his chin and the other one clutching a beer. His wispy white hair seemed to glow with the fluorescent light flooding in from the kitchen, surrounding his head like a halo.

“I hate this song,” she murmured, slipping off her coat and slinging it along the back of the only other empty chair at the table.

Mason opened his eyes slowly and blinked up at her. “Ehh…I don’t pick the music. Sasha thinks it’s cute to play disc jockey.” He raised his can of beer and gave it a little shake. “Care for a drink?”

“A Pabst? I haven’t had one of those since I was sixteen.”

“Glory days?” He waggled his nonexistent eyebrows.

Joan ventured a smile. “Not exactly”

“Aha!” he exclaimed suddenly, gesturing at her face with his free hand. “That smile…100 watts.” He laughed low in his chest, a growl of a laugh. “No wonder they call you the Angler.”

She almost cringed. The city of Gotham, including its underbelly, had the habit of giving out silly names and comic-book monikers to its more eccentric citizens. She didn’t count herself among their numbers personally. She could admit it _sort of_ made sense. Pretty lure, gruesome end. Still she wanted to throttle whoever had started with that stupid name. 

Mason seemed to notice her discomfort and shrugged back into his seat. “So…I’m sure you didn’t come all the way down here just to smile at some craggy old bastard.” He took a long, loud sip of his beer. “What’s on your mind, Joan?”

“I need work, Mason,” she stated flatly, “I’ve been lying low for weeks now to avoid any more scandal. At this point, I’ll take anything you want to give me.”

He rummaged in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. When he offered one to Joan, she accepted it with a thank you. “I’ve got a few customers on standby. I’ll make the calls.” They were silent for a moment while they smoked and she savored her small victory. She watched as Mason chewed thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek.

“A word of advice?”

He was offering again, trying to read her face for some kind of reaction. Joan exhaled a plume of smoke through her nose, which sufficed as permission for Mason.

“Keep your head down, Joan. Play it safe. Don’t take unnecessary risks.”

“This isn’t my first rodeo,” she muttered and took a sharp drag of her cigarette.

“I know that,” he huffed, setting down his beer and leaning forward in his seat toward her. When he spoke again, his voice was hardly above a whisper. “Did you run into a few fellas who left a few minutes before you walked in?”

She nodded slowly.

“The mob’s boys.”

“I was afraid to ask.” So Sasha was right. Sooner or later.

Mason grimaced. “They came in asking me to name the price. They also asked me for the names of my suppliers.”

Joan froze, her cigarette poised midair. He gave a shake of his head and his silvery hair quivered. “You know I’d never do it.”

“I don’t know…those guys were pretty big.” Her chest felt tight. “How long do you think you could hold them off?”

“A month at most. Maybe. Unless they come back with bigger goons.” Mason wheezed with a laugh and ground out his cigarette on the tabletop. He wiped the ash onto the floor with the flat of his palm. “You been watching the news lately?”

“Sure,” Joan put out her cigarette as well.

“Then you know about that clown fella who’s been running around. Fucking with the mob.”

She gave a half-shrug. “What’s that have to do with anything?”

Mason shrugged and leaned back in his chair, making a show of his indifference. “Maybe nothing. But he’s on everybody’s radar.”

“And what do you hear?”

“That he’s crazy. And dangerous.”

“He probably is.” Joan stared off at nothing and stifled her craving for another cigarette. She wondered if Mason had made the connection between this new Joker character and the man she and Sasha had brought into his kitchen eight months ago. The old man was never keen to mention that night like Sasha was, but there was a notable wariness in his expression, a gleam of worry in his eye. Something verging on paternal. And all that talk about lying low.

She noticed then that her headache had receded, along with the nausea. She was glad for it. She stood up promptly and retrieved her coat from the back of her chair, slipping it on with some reluctance. “I’ll be expecting your phone call, Mason.”

He nodded slowly and reached for another cigarette. “Take care, Joan.”

She did not reply to this as she moved for the door, with nothing left to say, steeling herself for the sunlight.

†

Some days passed. Joan spent most of them doing legwork. In her experience a job took three days, the first of which she spent in the city, downtown and uptown, ducking in and out of hotels. Lounges and hotel bars, rooftop patios, demurely lit pseudo-cantinas. Gotham was a regularly bustling metropolis. Plenty of international business, conventions and the like. Lots of people just passing through for work, unsuspecting, ignorant of the city’s unique dangers, vulnerable to impulse. She didn’t stay for long in any particular nightspot. Long enough to scale the layout and appraise the scene. The livelier the better, usually. There was less risk of detection from the cameras concealed behind the bar. Security was on the lookout for drunks and disobedient work staff. Not pretty women, blushing coyly into their vodka martinis.

She knew – or rather, she acknowledged, reluctantly – that she might get caught. The police would eventually wise up enough to recognize her frankly obvious pattern. There were a few times over the years when she suspected that the GPD had someone tailing her. Sometimes there would be a car, indiscreet, generic, parked across the street from her apartment for weeks at a time. Sometimes there was a man or a woman or multiple people who she thought might be following her down a crowded street at a pace of practiced leisure. But she was never apprehended. Never bothered. Never woke up in the middle of the night, with a gun trained on her chest or a detective rushing to cinch her wrists in a pair of handcuffs.

She hoped that when the time came she would have moved onto something else, something less criminal. It was petty crime in her opinion but the police would disagree. The black market was like a downward spiral of ever-widening circles, like ripples in a pond, each one more disgusting than the next. And at the center, there was no center. If they brought her down, they could bring it all down. They could rip the flesh away and there would be no bones. Only her and Mason and Sasha and every other scumbag she knew.

She entirely disliked the mob - a bunch of rich men congregating together couldn’t mean anything good for anybody - but she wasn’t too proud to admit that their notoriety afforded her some level of security. Her entire operation was eclipsed by their shadow. She could thrive, in spite of them. Like a willful weed. She would carry on for as long as it pleased her or for as long as she could. Until she was satisfied, with what or who, she couldn’t say exactly, or until she got caught. Whichever came first.

Sasha called her with an invitation to dinner. He sounded sober so she accepted; she was feeling generous that evening. Mason had called her earlier with a request from his customer as he promised. They needed a kidney. A small job, a walk in the park really. Joan was almost humming with excitement as she boarded the elevator for Sasha’s loft.

They fucked first, on the couch, like impatient teenagers, and then he fed her. It was a sound meal of scallops and angel hair pasta, the only wholesome thing she’d eaten all day. Unlike Joan, Sasha could cook. He enjoyed it even and he kept his kitchen well stocked. He watched her eat, insisting that he hadn’t much appetite, and he sipped his wine with a contented smile. When she came over, he liked to watch her, happy just to have her eat at his table, tired and still warm from the orgasm he’d given her. Joan did her best not to squirm under his attention. They were silent mostly, talking off and on until the meal was finished and Sasha ushered her back to the bedroom. They moved slower this time, lazy from the wine.

When they were through and he was pulling himself out of her, she rolled over onto her stomach and pulled one of the pillows under her chin. She felt lush, satisfied to break tradition and stay in bed with Sasha. She didn’t even flinch when he began to pet her, running his slender fingers along the downy skin of her back. She was nearly asleep when he suddenly spoke up. His voice was loud and warm on the back of her neck and his closeness surprised her.

“Can I ask a question?”

“No, I won’t marry you.”

His fingers stopped at the base of her spine. A show of hurt feelings maybe.

She smiled to herself and waited for him to pet her again. When he didn’t, she turned onto her side to look at him.

“Why don’t you kill those people? You know, the people you…work on.” His hair was hanging in his face but she could see his eyes, sad, hopeful. “I mean…have you ever thought about it?”

“Sure. Maybe once or twice.” He shifted next to her. “It would be easier that way. I would make more money. The guts that get the real money are the ones you can’t live without. Of course, I’ve considered it.”

“So why don’t you do it?”

There was a simple answer. That it was too messy. People would start to pay attention if a trail of dead bodies started cropping up. In her experience, most of her “victims” were happy enough to still be alive that they didn’t investigate. They were content to enjoy the shocked sympathy of their loved ones and blog about their ordeal to strangers on internet forums. She got her money. They got a fun story to tell at parties. Everybody won.

There was another answer, more personal, sentimental almost. Joan could cut into a person easy, could stomach the smell of a person’s insides, could slide her hand between flesh and viscera and take what she needed without flinching, as if she were taking a book down from the shelf. But death was different. It was a line she couldn’t cross, a self-imposed border. Her work allowed for death, invited it. But she kept control. She knew death, knew the stench of it, how it stuck to your skin and clung to your hair. She didn’t want any part of it. If she could avoid it, she would. And she did.

This was the more complicated answer. More philosophical, which Sasha would like. But she opted for the simpler one.

“Murder is flashy. Brings attention I don’t need. I don’t want to see my stupid nickname plastered all over the news. I’m not looking to make waves. Just get by. Get somewhere.”

“And where’s that?”

“Anywhere but here.” She rolled back onto her stomach, turning her face away from him. The conversation was over. She could feel him looking at her, visibly unsatisfied with her reply. A needle of irritation pushed itself into the pit of her stomach.

“Go to sleep, Sasha.” A long moment of silence. The bed whined as he slowly, obediently, slid down under the covers beside her.

“As long as I don’t wake up in a tub of ice.”

“No promises.”

He laughed into his pillow as his hand made a final pass along her back and then withdrew. Joan listened in the quiet as his breathing, shallow and sharp, began to slow. When she was sure he was asleep, she unclenched the fist she was hiding under the pillow. She shut her eyes tightly and started counting to herself, backwards, starting from a thousand.


	5. Chapter 5

In the early morning, Gotham was almost beautiful. Summer was settling into the city, a creeping wet heat that hung low around the buildings and thickened the air. The kind of weather that made her feel slow and stupid and angry with everyone. But in the mornings, for now, it was still cool. The breeze was crisp, leftover from the spring season, and on some mornings, like today, she could still see her breath. It wasn’t quite cold but Joan missed her coat, the new one she’d bought herself for Christmas. It was bulky, mannish, something blended with wool. As she walked, she distracted herself with thoughts of a hot bath at home.

Sleeping at Sasha’s had left her feeling disoriented and gross. Her insides felt baked with sleep and sour with the aftertaste of wine. An almost hangover. Not enough to warrant any self-pity. She’d slipped quietly out of bed near dawn, leaving him to clutch at her still-warm pillow. She’d made coffee as quietly as she could manage and took a cup with her to go, leaving the rest to collect into a smoldering ring of brown sludge at the bottom of the pot.

The streets were empty, just like she liked them. Back in Maryland, in her hometown, she had taken walks like this almost every morning. Alone, mostly, unless it was the weekend and then her father would join her. And in the summer they were together every day. The summers were different there. Joan could stand the heat better by the water. When it was early in the morning like this, she would be the only one on the beach. Summers with her father at the lake house. Her laugh came out a low, bitter hiss. When she looked back, her life didn’t seem like hers. Like a dream or a movie she’d seen on television and mistaken for reality.

She hadn’t thought about home for months. Hadn’t thought about her father for longer. She closed her eyes and forced a few deep breaths as she mounted the stairs for her building. She tried to remember if there was any liquor left in the apartment. Or any food at all.

She found her door unlocked. The knob was cold under her hand, untouched, and the wood around the lock intact. No foul play. Her fault. “Idiot,” she mumbled under her breath, letting herself in and tossing her unused keys on the counter.

She stood in the doorway for a second, trying to reason away the worry that had flickered up inside her. The apartment was silent except for the faraway drip of a faucet. Dawn struggled behind the blinds in her living room. The clock on the microwave silently registered the time. 7:30 exactly. Her mind immediately went to the security box in her closet. Nobody would steal the cat. It was too hungry and too mean. At the thought, she retrieved the bag of cat food from beneath the sink. She shook what little was left inside.

“Curtis!” she called, stooping to pick up the empty bowl. She refilled it and set it on the counter. She gave that a shake too for good measure. “Curtis, come eat.” The empty bag went in the trash as she left the kitchen. She stifled another yell when she stepped into the living room and realized she was not alone.

The man was sitting on the couch, hands on his knees, like a nervous date. He was staring at the cat who stared back from its perch on the coffee table, each trying to decide if the other was safe. But he turned his head to look at her when she shuffled into the room, his eyes bright, interested.

“You changed your hair.” He said it so casually. Like they were friends.

The paint on his face was garish and shiny, but it wasn’t new. Sweat and carelessness had made a smudgy mess of an already haphazard job. Streaks of black made tear-like tracks through the thick white and red of his mottled cheeks. The color was thinnest around his lips like he’d been eating something and it was then that Joan noticed the thin apple core sitting on the table, its insides smeared with makeup. His jacket was lying over the back of the sofa. He’d made himself at home. She took a small step back, physically overwhelmed by the absurdity of the scene.

“Don’t tell me you don’t recognize me?” he chattered, his fingers drumming on the tops of his knees, “It’s the hair isn’t it?” He gave his head a shake for emphasis. “I made an adjustment.” Green. Severely unwashed, but no longer caked with blood. She could smell him from across the room. Gasoline and rot.

“I never forget a face,” she murmured before she could stop herself. Her throat began to itch like it did when she was about to vomit. She clenched her jaw.

There was something screaming in her head. Alarms going off in the distance. This was too casual. Like running into an old boyfriend at the grocery store. He was calm now, normal almost. But the danger was there, just simmering under the surface. An animal that wasn’t quite domesticated and might bite you if you pet it wrong. The screaming leveled into a low, monotonous ramble. _The Joker is in your living room. The Joker is in your house. There is a maniac in your apartment. Crazy. Maniac. Ugly. Crazy. Maniac._

“How long have you been here?”

His head lolled onto the back of the sofa as if he was tired of making the effort to hold it upright. “Don’t flatter yourself - thirty minutes at most.” He was on his feet suddenly. He moved fast. She didn’t like that. She unconsciously took another step back into the kitchen. He followed with a small step of his own.

“I just stopped in to say hello.” Again, too casual.

“What for?”

He shrugged but the gesture was more like an animal raising its heckles. His scarred lips turned up into an ugly sort of smile. “Don’t be rude, Joan.”

Her name sounded crooked coming out of his mouth. She grimaced in spite of herself. “How do you know my name?”

“Oh I know all about you.” His eyes narrowed playfully and he stepped closer. The news footage did him no justice. He was much more horrifying up close, his white moon of a face looming over her. “You look scared. Are you scared of me?”

A twinge of anger. The muscle in her jaw twitched. Her lip started to curl around a reply but she stopped. Curtis was running himself up against her legs, mewling earnestly for the food she’d offered him earlier. She picked him up and held him to her chest, a little furry shield between her and the stranger in her apartment. She retreated into the kitchen, daring to turn her back to him. When the cat began to emit a low threatening whine, she set it on the counter. It started to eat with loud wet noises.

“How did you find me?” she asked over her shoulder. Her guest lingered in the doorway, leaning with his arms on either side of the jamb, effectively caging her. She focused on her breathing. The scalpel, tucked neatly in the front pocket of her jeans like it always ways, burned against her thigh.

“That friend of yours tipped me off. The sad Jewy looking one. Ran into him at a, uh, business meeting.”

 _Sasha_. Her stomach turned over. _Fucking Sasha_. She had gone over and let him fuck her and stare at her like an idiot. And the entire time he had known this maniac might be paying her a visit at any moment. Had helped him find her even. A vision of Sasha interrupted her anger. His thin body crumpled into a corner in some dark alley as he stuttered out her address. He had at least half a foot on the Joker but she couldn’t exactly blame him for giving into a little intimidation. She’d only been alone with the Joker for a few minutes but his presence seemed to fill up the room and take up all the air.

She leaned back against the sink, trying to put as much distance between them. “So what do you want?”

He gave a fake sort of shiver and giggled. “What a chilly reception. All business. Just like I remember.” He advanced into the room. The knife in her pocket burned brighter. He was making his way around the counter, slowly, like a snake. He knew she was afraid. He was taunting her. With small-talk.

“Just thought I’d check in. It’s been a very long time.”

Again, talking to her like they were old friends. She grimaced, watching him pause to pet the cat. The gesture was surprisingly gentle. She took the opportunity of his distracted attention to try to slide the scalpel out of her pocket. He noticed the slight movement and was on her immediately, one gloved hand wrapped tightly around her wrist and the other crushing itself against her windpipe. He dragged her out of the kitchen with a strength that left her breathless, her feet kicking uselessly along the floor. He threw her up against the front door and cracked her head against it once for good measure. She gasped with what little air she still had in her lungs, green stars flashing in front of her eyes. She felt him wrestle the scalpel out of her hand. There was a clatter as he threw it across the room.

“Well, _Joan_.” He was panting. Not from exertion but with laughter. He was laughing in her face. “I come by to give a long-overdue _thanks_ and you pull a knife on me? How is that supposed to make me feel? Hmm?”

She was staring directly into his mouth, huge and red and rotten. _He’s rotting from the inside out_ , she thought. The smell of gasoline and sweat was filling her nose, climbing down her throat. Again, the urge to retch. She held very still and hoped he would let her go.

He pursed his lips and smacked them loudly. “Suddenly not so chatty.” He drew back after a moment, one hand still on her throat, pinning her to the door. His eyes moved over her. Not suggestive. Curious. Sizing her up. She didn’t know what he was looking for.

He gave her a light shove, playful but hard enough to knock her head against the door again, and then he stepped away. He walked back into the living room as casually as if he had just let her into the apartment and was showing her around. She stood frozen by the door, her throat numb with pain and the back of her head pulsing. She clenched her hands together to stop them from shaking.

The Joker swept back into the kitchen as he was shrugging on his coat. He clicked when he walked like his pockets were full of plastic and metal. When he stepped toward her, she tensed, instinctively pressing herself against the door. He tsked at her and shook his head as if she were a belligerent child, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a thick manila envelope. She watched him set it on the counter, her eyes wide, soaking up his every movement. He sauntered over to her and she felt his hand brush her hip as he reached for the door knob. They stood like that for a moment and he giggled again.

“‘Scuuuuse me.”

She stepped mechanically to the side.

“Catch ya later.”

The door slammed with a sound like a gunshot. Curtis peaked his fat orange head out from around the corner in the living room. He gave a chirp and leapt onto the counter to finish his meal.

Joan stood still in the silence and took a long, deep breath from her stomach. Her hand went automatically to the back of her skull. Not bleeding. She could already feel a thick ring of bruises forming on her neck. She struggled to swallow, her throat swollen and dry from fear. She started her counting, an old trick for the panic, and took five more slow breaths. With one hand, she locked the door – the deadbolt, the chain (she made a mental note to install several more) – and with the other, she wrangled her cellphone out of her jacket pocket.

_10\. 9. 8._

She texted Sasha. He replied that he would be there in fifteen minutes.

 _Fifteen minutes_. He was probably stopping to get condoms.

“Son of a bitch.” Her face still tingling with rage and panic, she strode through the living room, down the hall, and into her bedroom.

_7.6.5._

She was rifling under her mattress when her thoughts snagged on the package in the kitchen. _Later. Later._

_4.3…_

Her fingers closed around the cool glass neck of a bottle. Blessedly full.

 _3.2.1._ She finished her count with three angry gulps of whiskey. Then, wiping her mouth, she started again at ten.

When Sasha finally knocked on her door, the bottle was sitting on the coffee table and Joan was curled into a tight ball on the couch. She sprang up instantly and let him in; she noticed her hands were still shaking as she worked open the locks so she clenched them into fists.

“Up for round two?”

He was hardly through the door when she started to hit him, wailing on him without restraint, straining to get a few jabs at his face. “You asshole, you fucking bastard! You owe me an explanation!” she screamed, as he swore and tried to duck away from her blows. He gave a strangled yelp as her fist collided with his nose. He got angry then, grabbing her wrists and practically hoisting her off him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? What the fuck do you mean “an explanation?” He spoke down at her loudly and she thrashed violently in his grasp. She was sick of being handled. She aimed a kick at his groin and he released her, all but tossing her into the living room where she collided with the couch.

“You gave _the Joker_ my address?” She straightened up and squared herself to face him, her thigh already burning with a new bruise.

The color drained from his face. He blinked once. “Did he come here?” He rushed across the room to where she sat on the arm of the couch, his face bending into a familiar expression of concern. “Did he hurt you?”

“Don’t fucking touch me, Sasha,” she spat, throwing up her hands. They had stopped shaking. “Of course he came here. Did you print him out a fucking map?”

“He cornered me, Joan! He showed up at a fucking meeting the mob was having. I nearly shit my pants…” He muttered his explanation into his chest. He squirmed under her stare and eventually wavered, leaning himself against the wall for support. “He recognized me. He followed me after the meeting, found me somehow. Said he wanted to say thank you…wanted to know your name.” He let out a long shaky sigh. Joan could see he was green in the face, as if the memory was still too strong for him to stomach.

He approached her slowly, still wary. Closer up, she could see his nose was swollen; she had gotten him good. She resisted the urge to smile. To her surprise, he kneeled suddenly as though he were collapsing and tried to take her hands. When she jerked them away, he let his hands fall down by his sides.

“He had his fucking knife in my mouth. It tasted like blood – you don’t understand. Well…I guess you do now.”

It was precisely the explanation she had expected. Sasha had made himself sick. He was on his knees. She still didn’t feel any better. But she could pretend for now. Still scowling, she reached out to him and cupped his face in her hand. He hesitated, confused by her unexpected tenderness, before he leaned his face into her touch.

“Whatever you want it’s yours,” he murmured, “I can have two armed men at your door by tonight, two more downstairs. Just say the word.”

Her lip curled and she pulled her hand away. “I don’t want your mob friends hanging around.”

Sasha made a sullen face and got back on his feet. “Just thought I’d offer…” He wandered into the kitchen, rubbing absently at his nose. She heard the clink of a glass and the unmistakable whine of the faucet.

“What’s with the package?” He reemerged sipping a glass of water.

Her stomach gave an involuntary lurch. “None of your business.” He shrugged, playing at indifference, and slouched back up against the wall. They were quiet for a minute, both of them staring at the floor. The lump on the back of her head had stopped throbbing but the pain had wrapped itself around the crown of her head. A mild concussion maybe. She closed her eyes and chewed the inside of her cheek to keep from swearing aloud.

She thought of scars, infection, rotting teeth, a rusty blade wedged into her mouth. Her stomach turned over again, stewing in panic and whiskey and old coffee.

“Could you get me a gun?”

Sasha blinked at her in surprise and thickly swallowed his last gulp of water. “Sure, yeah. I can get it to you by tomorrow afternoon at the latest, probably.”

She nodded slowly, still staring blankly down at the floor. “Thank you. I can get you the money.”

“I don’t want your money.” He ducked around the corner and she listened as he politely set the glass in the sink. She looked up at him after a moment when he reappeared in the doorway, sensing that he wanted to say his goodbyes. The color was returning to his face, ebbing out from the scarlet ring around his nose. It made him look like he was blushing. “I’m sorry, Joan…I didn’t want it like this.”

She stared off at nothing, silent, tonguing the swollen spot in her mouth. “Yeah.”

Her forehead throbbed where he kissed her goodbye. When he was gone, she automatically went to the door and locked it shut behind him.

†

It would be a few days before she touched the envelope the Joker had left for her. Joan found herself watching it where it sat on the counter as if it were something alive and dangerous, as if it might sneak up behind her if she looked away for too long. She was so wary of it that she even kept the cat away from it, shooing it off the counter whenever it nuzzled up to the thing in search of food. When she could stand the suspense no longer, she put on a pair of medical gloves, wrapped a bandana around the lower half of her face, and took the envelope into the bathroom. She held her breath while she cut through the paper with her scalpel.

The cautionary measures proved unnecessary. There was nothing in the envelope but several wads of cash bound with rubber bands. She pulled the bandana down around her neck and breathed a short sigh of relief as she emptied the envelope onto the counter. She kept her gloves on while she counted. One hundred thousand in newly minted twenty-dollar bills. She slipped one of the bills out of a stack and held it up to the light above the sink. Joan had moved a lot of money in her line of work and from what she could tell, this wasn’t counterfeit. But it was dangerous, she knew that for sure. With all the robbery the Joker had committed in the past several months, the cash had to belong to somebody who was missing it. Somebody powerful and probably pissed.

She was turning the envelope over in her hands, looking for any writing, when she saw there was something stuck to the inside. A playing card. A Joker. She sneered at the cheesiness of it. It was sticky to the touch and the little clown on the face of the card was smeared with red. Blood or lipstick she couldn’t tell. She put the card aside carefully for later inspection and stuffed the cash away in the envelope.

She was still deliberating whether or not to burn the money when she wandered into the front room for a cigarette. The air was wet with the humid whisper of the evening, breathing in through the open window on the far left wall. The cat, half asleep on the back of the couch, gave a low disgruntled whine when Joan moved onto the couch.

“Yeah, yeah…” she replied, lighting her cigarette and inhaling deeply before setting it delicately on the chipped lip of the crystal ashtray on the side table. The little dish was already full of ash and half smoked butts. She only picked up the habit when she was nervous. She hadn’t smoked this much since med school.

Sasha had gotten her the cigarettes, the kind she could stomach, put them in with the care package of sorts he’d delivered to her door. Cigarettes, a modest bottle of whiskey, and the gun, a Beretta with a full magazine and a couple boxes of ammunition. It had been heavier than she imagined, almost too heavy to lift with a steady arm. But she had practiced, had watched enough YouTube videos to make her self-consciously erase her internet history. Now she knew how to clean the thing, how to load it, how to handle it without blowing her face off.

She liked the slick black weight of it in her palm, the guarantee of it, heavy in the drawer of her bedside table. Some small part of her mind prickled at the thought of keeping the gun. She had never liked them. Too brash, too loud, too phallic. But they got the job done quicker than a scalpel. She’d never held a gun before, had never even seen one up close. She was embarrassed by how slow her arm moved to lift the thing. So she practiced, methodically, raising her arm to take aim, her fingers working over the hammer, curling around the trigger, sure but still trembling.

The Joker might’ve been insane but Joan was ready to take him for his word. She knew he would come back. The gun was just an illusion of control, but for now, she would take it.

She wasn’t sleeping much but when she did she dreamt about Maryland. Stress had a way of mangling the order in her head. Things had been out of place since that morning that Joker had made his visit and she resented him for it. The bruises around her neck had nearly healed but her uneasiness lingered, a hot stone in the pit of her stomach that even the whiskey couldn’t cool. So slept fitfully, half drunk, and dreamt about Sawyer, about the empty house that was still there waiting for her, should she choose to give up her supposed life of crime. It was probably still standing how she’d left it four years ago. Peaceful, faded, solid under a thin layer of dust and dead things. Her father’s coat still hanging in the hall closet as if he might come back to retrieve it.

Her mouth twitched at the sudden thought of him. Twice now in one week. She picked up her cigarette and took another drag, deeper this time, and blew the smoke sharply out through her nose as if to expel the thoughts idling in the front of her mind.

She could move back to Maryland. Stop drinking so much. Find a nice boy to fuck. Become a librarian.

But for now she had the gun.


	6. Chapter 6

“He’s started killing mob bosses. Gambol’s men are missing or dead. A goddamn janitor found Gambol’s body in the back of a pool hall.”

“None of what you’re saying matters to me,” Joan sighed, shifting her shoulder slightly to raise the phone to her mouth. Sasha had called at a bad time of course. She was halfway through painting her toenails and her neck was starting to cramp from holding the phone.

“Well, it should.” He sounded more anxious than usual. “Things are escalating. Gambol’s a powerful man and the Joker swatted him like he was a fly.”

“Please leave me out of these mob politics,” she muttered and cursed silently to herself when she accidentally nicked the flesh of her big toe with a flick of red paint. She sealed the bottle and set it aside in quiet frustration, taking the phone in her hand. “Look, I’ve got the gun you sent me. I haven’t left my apartment in a few days and there hasn’t been any threat. If you’re calling to check up on me, I’m fine. But if you’re calling to scare me into some underground bunker, you can fuck right off.”

Silence on the other end of the line. She felt something like guilt turn over in her stomach. _He was just trying to be helpful…_

“Why don’t I come over later? We could make dinner or something…”

She rolled her eyes at his sudden sentimentality but decided against running him off. He sounded bad, panicked almost. If the Joker was picking off mob bosses so easily, what would that mean for the small guys like Sasha, suddenly without a shadow to hide in?

“I can’t,” she replied, picking up the little bottle of red paint and giving it a good shake, “Mason’s got work for me tonight. I won’t be in until late.”

“I can wait up.”

She smiled despite herself and hung up the phone.

†

It was only half-past midnight when she stepped out into the alley behind the hotel. She stood for a moment in the dark, allowing herself a moment to breathe. It had rained while she was inside and the air had cooled and there was a light sheen of sweat on the brick of the building. For some reason, she could smell chlorine. Or maybe it was bleach.

She adjusted her grip on her LifePort and set her briefcase of tools for a moment to check her phone. Nothing. Mason wasn’t expecting her for another hour or so. She weighed her options. She couldn’t very well stop for a drink with a kidney in tow. Maybe she could go home, clean herself up. She’d gotten a bit of blood on her dress. She’d had too much to drink on the job. Stupid of her, but she could only blame the client.

The man that she caught wasn’t easy or maybe she was just rusty. He wanted to talk, to complain about a wife or a girlfriend or whoever. She’d had to touch him to move things along, but a little petting was enough to get him upstairs. She was happy when he was finally quiet and unconscious. Her face had started to hurt from smiling so big.

It was a simple kidney job and she was finished in an hour or so. He’d had a lot to drink, on his dime thankfully, and Joan had been worried the anesthesia might kill him. But he was still breathing when she lowered him into the ice bath. She had turned the lights out on him when she left, just to spite him for wasting so much of her time.

She would go home, at least so she could take her wig off. No lace front was worth the heat.

The hotel wasn’t far from her apartment, about ten blocks east, five north. She was about five minutes into her journey home when she realized she was being followed. White van, some forgettable logo painted on the side in striped green ink. Fake. She watched the reflection of the car in the darkened store windows across the street as it creeped behind her. No telling whether it was a run of the mill pervert or something worse. She gripped the scalpel in her pocket and quickened her pace, wishing for a moment that she’d left for the night with the gun.

Three blocks away from home and the van hadn’t made any new moves. Either she was imagining things. Or they were taunting her. When they finally mounted the curb some yards ahead of her and blocked her in, she couldn’t tell if they had caught her or if she had just given up. She didn’t even have time to scream.

The men were wearing clown masks. The van smelt like gasoline. She found herself fighting, mechanically, her body’s instinctual response to the hands on her body.

“Get the knife away from her!”

“Stop wriggling, sweetheart.”

The sudden assault had sobered her mind but her limbs still felt heavy from the liquor. Every strike seemed to take so much effort. She managed to catch one of the men across the face and that earned her a hard slap. The hands on her arms tightened and she was righted against the side of the van. Her ears rang as the back of her head collided hard with some kind of shelf.

A gloved hand closed around her wrist and bent it backward. She was half aware of the pain as she tried her best to stay conscious for the throbbing emanating from the crown of her skull. The scalpel was pried from her fingers.

“You and this little knife.” The familiar voice was close and she could feel his breath on the left side of her face. “The best of friends…I can relate!” He gripped her face, hard, digging his fingers into the hollows of her cheeks. “Wake up, wake up, wake up! Or I’ll cut off your eyelids, silly.”

The Joker’s painted face swam into view as Joan fought against the urge to slip away. She focused on the red of his mouth, the wide wetness of it. He gave her face a little slap and turned back around in his seat. She was suddenly aware that the van was moving. There wasn’t much light in the cabin but she caught flashes of the scene as the van hurtled in and out of the yellow light of passing street lamps.

Three men, two sitting opposite her on a workbench of sorts that was secured to the floor, one sitting beside her, holding her by the back of the neck. They were rummaging through her things and they muttered amongst themselves, their voices were muffled by the masks. She could barely make out what they were saying over the roar of the road under them.

“Please don’t touch my tools,” she hissed and the hand on her neck slammed her head back into the wall. She winced and growled through gritted teeth. “They’re _sanitized_.”

“Shut up.” The plastic clown face loomed from the right. “You think you’re in charge?” His thumb wiggled into the corner of her mouth and tugged. She gagged and tore her face away, the grime of his fingers smearing across her cheek.

“What the hell is this thing? An EasyBake Oven?”

“The fuck you on about –"

“Oh fuck, goddamn, what the fuck is _that_?!”

Joan closed her eyes. They’d found the kidney. It was ruined now that it was exposed. _Mason will be pissed._ The thought of Mason momentarily pulled her away from the scene in the van. _He would be expecting her. He would be worried_ …Didn’t matter now. She watched, detached and silent, as one of the goons pried the kidney out of the LifePort. He held it lightly between his fingers and tried to smash it into the other’s face. The other goon began to retch and holler.

“Stop that shit! Goddamn, stop it! I’ll break my foot off in your ass if I have to motherfucker!”

The laughter, the screams, sounded canned, too loud. Joan felt the vibrations in the back of her head. She wondered if she was bleeding.

“Shut up, fellas!” The Joker called suddenly. He’d been fiddling with the radio and had finally turned around to address the noise. “Pull it together, Cyrus. No puke in the van.” His eyes moved over Joan and he frowned playfully, his eyes glowing menacingly in the dark. “Whatsa matter? Not having fun?”

She glared back at him, pushing down the scream of rage she could feel curling up in the back of her throat. That must have been answer enough for him. He giggled and bounced back around in his seat, humming to himself as he slammed his feet up onto the dashboard. Joan spent the rest of the ride watching his men kick the kidney around the floor of the van.

When they arrived, she was hoisted out by the back of her neck. Her heels were unsteady on the pavement and she struggled to keep up without rolling her ankle as she was hurried through the back door of a building and down a long dark hallway. She couldn’t see much for the darkness and the men crowding her. Up ahead there was a brightly lit room, glowing green with fluorescence. It was cold here and the air smelled sour. Like blood or something wet and rotten.

The stench overwhelmed her as she was brought into the room and she saw why. It was a meat locker. The walls were lined with frozen gore, great hunks of something strung up from the ceiling on monstrous steel hooks. In the corner of the room there was a man tied to a chair, unconscious, bleeding from the head. He was wearing some kind of black body armor. She watched as the Joker ambled up to the man, leaned back dramatically, and spit in his face with a laugh.

Then she was being moved again, handed off to the Joker as he passed out of the room. He’d been silent mostly except for the humming and the bark of a laugh he’d released when the group came into the room. He held her in the crook of his arm, pulling her into him tightly. He was too close too suddenly and Joan couldn’t breathe. The more she leaned away from him, the more she pushed at his chest, the tighter he held her.

“You’ll meet Bryan later, don’t worry,” he cooed into her ear as he steered her into the hall. “For now, I need you to wait _here_.” He pinned her lightly against the wall and peered down at her through the eerie green darkness.

She stared back at him evenly, her heart beating in her throat. “Why the fuck am I here?”

“I wanna see what you can do. You fixed me up so nicely, see” He tilted his face up so she could see his scars and smiled wide. “Consider me a repeat customer.”

She frowned, glancing back toward the room. “You want me for surgery?”

“Something like that.” He tugged idly on the ends of her wig. “This is cute. You use this for work too? One of your _tools_?” He waggled his eyebrows and she grimaced. He gave her nose a quick hard pinch and finally let her go. She slunk back against the hall and turned her face away from him, staring off into the darkness of the hall.

“Feel free to use that cellphone in your coat pocket,” he muttered as he started to saunter away, “Don’t let your loved ones lose any sleep.”

Joan waited until he was far enough away to glance after him. The light at the end of the hall was almost too bright and she had to squint as she watched him round the corner and disappear. After a few moments, there was a shout and a whimper, followed by the wet sound of leather slapping on flesh. Joan unstuck herself from the wall. The Joker was through with her for now. He was busy with his other captive.

She peered down the hallway warily, her eyes flickering over the clown-masked man standing nearest the entrance. He didn’t seem to be paying any attention to her. Still, she was quick about slipping the phone from her pocket and turned away to look at it so the glow of the screen wouldn’t catch his eye in the darkness.

Several messages from Sasha. The only person who ever called her. It was a little past one. He was trying to firm up plans. She thought about calling him. For what? For help? What could he do?

 _Nothing_. She dismissed the idea and locked her phone. No point in any of it. No need to alarm Sasha. He was already so on edge. She’d make it home tonight intact if it killed her. She’d fight her way out of here and walk home if she had to.

She realized then that she was still in her “work” clothes. Heels and a dress. Sexy shit. Groaning to herself, she pulled the wig off her head and threw it onto the floor. Then the wig cap. She picked at her hair with her fingers, teasing it out, careful not to touch the tender part on her scalp where she’d been hit. No blood. She was grateful for that at least.

There was yelling coming from the other room now. The Joker talking to someone, _at_ someone. He was getting upset at Bryan, laughing at him. And then he was shouting about Batman and Gotham and chaos.

“Jesus fuck,” she muttered. This was a whole other level of bizarre she didn’t need any part of.

Batman. You’d have to be living under a rock not to have heard the stories. Mason liked to talk about him when he’d had a few beers. Swore that he saw him, swore that he’d even heard him _growl_. Joan could give a damn. Another weirdo in Gotham’s gallery trying to make a statement with some pyrotechnics and a costume. Apparently he’d sprung up out of the blue and he’d probably disappear just as fast. She didn’t take him very seriously.

Of course, she hadn’t taken the Joker very seriously either. _And here I am_. She let out a slow uneasy breath and waited for the screams to die down so she could steel herself for whatever was coming for her next.

She didn’t have to wait long. She was resting, knees bent and sort of squatting, with her back against the wall and her eyes closed. Her exhaustion was sudden and overwhelming. And then there was that hand on the back of her neck, wrenching her up and into the light. Not the Joker but one of his men. She was pushed forward, stumbling and squinting. She collided with a body and there were arms around her to hold her upright.

“And now our special guest of the evening,” the Joker announced with a flair of his free hand. Joan noticed grimly that he was brandishing a bloodied potato peeler. “Bryan, be polite and welcome Joan to the floor if you would.”

Bryan seemed almost elated to see someone normal and his eyes widened with a silent plea for help. A grunt of recognition was all he could manage for the gag tied around his face.

Joan tried to keep her face empty of emotion although the panic was slowly building in the bottom of her stomach. She pulled herself out of the Joker’s grasp and took a few steady steps away from him. Bryan followed her with his eyes, blinking away the sweat and blood as it trickled down his forehead.

“Whatever it is you brought me here to do,” she muttered, “Can we get it over with?”

The Joker made a funny sound with his mouth. “It’s all business with you, babe. All work and no play?”

She blinked at him and he made a sour face. “Very well then!” Glancing away from her with an overdramatic roll of his eyes, the Joker traded his knife for a pistol and without warning, shot Bryan squarely in the knee.

Joan covered her head instinctively and for a moment, couldn’t hear anything for the sharp ringing in her ears. Bryan’s mouth was contorting around the gag in a cry of agony but she couldn’t hear it. She stared at him, almost dumbstruck, as he thrashed violently in his chair, blood puddling around his feet.

The feeling of a gun barrel nuzzling just above her left ear brought her suddenly back to her sense. “Remove the bullet.” The Joker’s voice was a hot growl on the side of her face. She wouldn’t look at him but she could tell from the purr of his voice that he was smiling. “I’ll time you. Take too long and the next bullet goes into your brain.”

She was moving before she could fully realize what was happening. She shrugged out of her coat and laid it on the floor in front of Bryan. Before she could ask, one of the men stepped out of the surrounding shadow to toss her briefcase down beside her. She pulled out her scalpel. Bryan’s eyes widened when he saw the glint of the knife and he began to thrash harder.

“Easy now,” she murmured, kneeling down beside his chair. She put her hand on his good leg to steady him and looked up into his face. He was breathing hard, his color gone, his cheeks wet with tears and sweat. She realized, looking at him, that he would probably, more than likely, die tonight.

“I know you’re in a lot of pain, but I need your cooperation,” she said slowly, never breaking eye contact with him as she reached into her bag for a tourniquet. She tied it tightly right above his thigh and shushed him when he started to scream again. “I’m going to remove the bullet from your leg and I can only promise it will be painful.” She was cutting into his pants now, clearing away the fabric that had been charred by the heat of the lead. His eyes followed her hands as they moved into and out of her bag, retrieving bottles, knives, and gauze.

Joan poured a generous amount of alcohol onto a pad of gauze, took the injured leg in her hands, and looked hard into the man’s face. “Don’t forget to breathe for me.”

The howl of pain that erupted from his throat as she cleaned the wound was animal. Joan’s hands were shaking as she tried to steady him. The terror and the agony was coming off him in waves; she could almost smell it and the stench of it was almost too much for her to stomach. There was a reason she made a living cutting into people who were already unconscious. She hoped, shamefully, that he might pass out from the pain if only to stop the screaming.

“Could someone hold him still?” she called, tossing the bloodied gauze aside and taking up her scalpel. “I could nick an artery with him thrashing around like this.”

“Makes no difference to me,” the Joker muttered from somewhere behind her.

“I can’t focus like this,” she spat, more to herself than anyone else. She was about to shift her position on the floor, when she felt the barrel of a gun at the base of her neck. The metal was still hot from the last bullet to leave the chamber.

“Does _this_ help?”

Joan stared into the red pulp of Bryan’s wound and willed her hands to stop trembling. She worked as fast as she could, faster than she thought possible considering her lack of experience with this kind of procedure. Sure, extraction was extraction but organs were always in the same place in every body. Rooted where nature had planted them. Without imaging, the bullet could have tunneled deeper than she thought, into some part of the limb past bone or ligament she was not prepared to reach.

It must have been five minutes into the procedure when Bryan started to shake. She glanced up from her work to find that he was somehow paler than before. The collar of his heavy black shirt was drenched with sweat and his eyes, their pupils blown, kept rolling back into his head. Despite the shaking, he was suddenly a lot easier to work on. She was silently thankful.

“He’s going into shock,” she announced quietly to no one in particular. The only reply she received was the press of the gun. The Joker crouched down behind her, forcing her face closer to the wound with the gun at her neck. She shifted as far away from him as she could, unnerved by the heat of him at her back.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just cut off his leg and shake the thing like a piñata until the bullet falls out? Hm?” His mouth was wet and too close to her ear.

“I’d need a bigger knife for that,” she murmured after a brief moment of silence, not looking up from her work.

He giggled. “They teach you that procedure in med school?”

Her breath caught in her throat as she cut quickly through one more layer of tissue and the bullet revealed itself, half buried in pink and yellow viscera. Her hands, soaked to the wrist in blood, were sure as she traded her scalpel for small steel forceps. She turned her head slightly, suddenly unafraid of the Joker’s nearness, victory swelling up inside as she held up the slug for him to see.

“What was my time?”

The look in his eyes when he moved to stand over her, removing the gun from the back of her head, was something between fascination and rage. She couldn’t help herself. She smiled at him, triumphant despite her overwhelming and exhausting fear.

When he lowered his hand and opened it to her, she let the bullet fall into his palm and disappear into his gloved fist. She glanced back at Bryan. He was unconscious, but still alive, his chest heaving with the effort to breath. She was glad for it. It was the last thing she registered before a gun connected with the side of her skull and she slipped into a heavy darkness.


	7. Chapter 7

She awoke in a fit of heat and nausea, grasping at the last threads of her dream. For a moment, she could still see the house in Sawyer, broken, overgrown with dead vines and decay. There was a ghost standing in the open door, a figure awash in purple flame, appearing to beckon her in…But then the vision was gone, melting back into nothingness.

The pain came to her slowly as she eased herself out of bed. The headache, the soreness in her limbs from being pushed and pulled by careless hands, the sickening knot of tender flesh on the back of her skull that seemed to pulse with pain. She reeked of sweat and something else, something rancid – the stench of panic and old blood. She moved to the bathroom, shuffling slowly, and immediately shut her eyes against the bleary light streaming in from the window.

Groaning, she shut the blinds and settled herself in front of the toilet. She would try, at least, to help the nausea. She gave a few good heaves, pushing until she felt the veins stand out in her neck, but nothing came up. Her stomach twisted, coiling around itself. It was only when she was hoisting herself back to her feet that she saw the blood.

Her wrists were ringed with dark circles, stained brown with blood where her gloves had not been able to reach. She remembered then. The man – Bryan. His screaming, his fear, the smell of it that seemed to come off him…The Joker had not even had to _try_ to find her. It had been so easy. One moment, she was finishing up a job. And the next he _had her_. He had laughed at her, laughed in her face…No one laughed at Joan. They didn’t dare.

_And then he came into my apartment and he put me to bed._

Her stomach turned at the thought. She put it out of her mind as she started the shower and stepped gingerly under the searing hot flow. The past was coming up all at once, spilling into the present like filth from a sewer. Now, she was a witness, a victim. By no choice of her own, she was now involved in something, _with someone_ , much larger and much more dangerous than she had first believed. For the first time in a long time, she felt afraid. She felt stupid, trapped. But – one thing at a time.

She washed the night away and as the blood pooled at her feet, she began to close her mind. An old trick, a necessary something she had picked up along her way. She pictured her mind like an iron vault, closing its door to whatever she could not allow. This way, she could witness anything, do anything, survive anything. This way, she kept control.

She took in the damage as she dried off. A mark at the base of her neck that looked a lot like a hand, a purple bruise blossoming across the right side of her face, stopping just short of her eye. She let out a low, measured breath; she wouldn’t be able to work until the bruise cleared.

_He’ll like that. You’ll be right where he wants you – sitting at home, ready for his disposal._

The rage burned like bile at the back of her throat and simmered there as she moved out into the living room. She found her jacket, also stained with blood, tossed haphazardly on the couch along with the rest of her things: her briefcase, the LifePort stained with gore, but thankfully turned off. She quickly rifled through the jacket for her phone, which was just as busy as she suspected. Ten or so calls from Sasha and only one message from Mason. She sighed, deleting the voicemails Sasha had left and texting Mason that she’d be at his in half an hour. There was so much to explain and she had so little motivation to go through with it. Especially with Sasha.

She dressed quickly, forgoing makeup for a large pair of sunglasses. The cat, who was only sort of happy to see her, followed her to the door. She filled his bowl with some dubious leftovers from the fridge on her way out.

It was a Thursday morning, just past eleven, but the streets were already slick with sweat. People bustled about on their lunch breaks, walking aimlessly alone or in little groups, everyone ready with an umbrella in case the sky decided to open up. No one seemed to pay any attention to Joan as she walked but all the same, she kept an eye on the passing cars, peeking out from under the hood of her sweater at the crosswalks to make sure no one was following too closely. Every now and then she got a glimpse of herself in a shop window and she sneered at her own reflection; she looked like a battered woman. And well, she was.

The traffic thinned as she cut down through back streets and alleys toward the Inferno. The sky seemed darker here, hovering closer to the tops of buildings somehow. She brushed past the usual junkies, sauntering up to her with empty hands outstretched, but other than that she went unbothered.

When she arrived at Mason’s, she found a man standing guard at the door. He stepped toward her as she mounted the steps.

“What’s your business here, miss?”

He looked halfway familiar. A regular of Mason’s probably. She lowered her shades and shrugged off her hood. “I’m here for Mason.”

Recognition, mixed with unease. “Of course.” He stepped aside and even held the door open for her. “Sorry,” he muttered, almost as an afterthought. She walked into the cool darkness of the half-empty barroom, pushing her shades back up on her nose. Mason stood behind the bar, absent mindedly drying a glass with a yellowing rag. He glanced up as she approached, his eyes wary, full of that fatherly concern that made her so nervous.

“What’s with the muscle outside?” she began, sliding onto a stool.

He shrugged. “A security measure. Too many crazies out in the streets, too much heat.” He threw the rag over his shoulder and pushed the glass in his hand toward her. It was quiet for a moment before he spoke again. “I got scared when you didn’t show last night.” He took up a bottle and poured her a splash of whiskey. “But I knew you’d find your way.”

The smell of the alcohol turned her stomach, but she took down the shot anyway, happy for the familiar warmth in her chest. She cleared her throat. “I botched the job, Mason. I’m sorry.”

He dismissed her apology with a wave, pouring another shot. “Don’t matter. You gonna tell me what happened to your face?”

She should have guessed he would see through her disguise. She took the glasses off this time and let him see for himself. A flicker of something flashed across his ragged face. Joan watched as he clenched and unclenched his fist under the bar. “Did one of the men do that to you? Some city shmuck?”

She managed a smirk despite the pain. “Something like that.” She took up the glass again, sipping slower this time. “Listen, Mace, I came because I wanted to tell you that I might…I might have to leave.”

He froze. “Leave Gotham?”

“Hell, if I could leave the country I would.”

Worry filled his face again. “Are you in trouble, Joan?”

If there was ever a moment to confess, this was it. She imagined herself spilling her secret to Mason, allowing him to protect her, to shelter from the shit storm that was already upon them, upon the whole city. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it, no matter how the words struggled against her heavy tongue. The moment was passing away; she could already feel her mind closing again.

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

The lie was so thin it was insulting. She raised the glass of whiskey to her mouth, hoping to hide her shame from him, and nearly choked on the last sip, startled by the sound of the front door slamming open. A long, narrow body stood for a moment in the doorway illuminated by the weak sunlight. The shadow was unmistakable – Sasha.

He threw the door closed behind him and grabbed at a nearby chair to block the door. Frowning, Joan got to her feet. This was unusual panic, even for Sasha. Some of Mason’s customers began to garble their complaints and Sasha seemed to erupt with agitation.

“ _SHUT UP, YOU FUCKS!_ ” He cried, pulling a gun from the holster beneath his jacket. “This is serious. They’re coming!”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Sasha?” Joan called across the barroom, watching the barrel of his gun tremble within his shaking hand. “Who’s coming?”

He blinked rapidly, staring through the dark of the room until his eyes settled on her. His sweaty face seemed to break with agony. “Joan, you need to get out of here. You have to go right now.” He started toward her and she leaned away from him, eyeing the gun he was still waving around. His eyes were blown, terrified, and he was breathing hard. As if he had run all the way here. Joan began to feel a new wave of panic begin to pool in her stomach.

“ _Who_ the fuck is coming?” She growled and writhed out from under the hands that wanted to hold her.

“The GCPD, Gordon and the rest of the fucking pigs! They’re running busts on the mob and anyone affiliated and they’ve been cornering men all week. I tried to come as soon as I heard. I’d say we have less than five minutes before they show up and blow this place down.”

The men in the barroom, who had stopped their grumbling to listen, jumped up from their seats and immediately rushed for the back door, strewing chairs and glasses in their wake. Above the sound of breaking glass, Joan could hear the sirens. Close now, closer. They sounded as if they were right outside. As if on cue, there came an earsplitting bang from the other side of the front door. The foundation of the bar shook with the force of the battering ram. She jumped despite herself.

_“GCPD, open up! We have a warrant to search the premises. Do not attempt to flee - we have you surrounded.”_

She turned to look at Mason, but he was already moving out from behind the bar, reaching for her. She let him guide her back into the kitchen, past the holding room, the fridges and freezers that held her work. Sasha followed closely on their heels. The wailing of the sirens and the thumping at the door continued. Any second now the wood would split and it would be through. Sasha and Mason were talking to one another, discussing logistics but she wasn’t listening.

In a moment, she realized what she had to do. And she hated herself for the decision, for the unnecessary sacrifice of it. How stupidly heroic. But this was an out she was willing to take – to go where she knew _he_ would not follow. Maybe…if she was careful…she could arm herself against the Joker in more ways than one.

Mason was guiding her into the back alley when she stopped short. “No,” she muttered, wincing when Sasha gave a tug at her arm. She hadn’t realized until then that he’d been holding her hand. “No, you guys go.”

“ _What_?” Mason was looking at her as if she were crazy.

“I said, go! I’ll stay behind.”

“Have you lost your mind?!” Sasha gave her arm another tug and she wrenched her hand away in exasperation.

“Mason, they have enough evidence in this room to throw you in Blackgate for the next millennium. And if you go away, I’m out of a job.” The old man laughed despite himself, shaking his head as he turned to glance warily up and down the back alley. “And Sasha, we all know you’d crack under the slightest pressure and spill your guts.”

Sasha scowled. “That’s not fair.” J

oan stopped the smile from creeping onto her lips. “We can argue about it later. Mason?”

“Hmm?”

“If I need bail, there’s one hundred thousand in a manila envelope at my apartment under my mattress – use it.” She didn’t wait for a yes, closing the back door on the two men out in the alley and locking it behind them for good measure. She pressed herself against the cold metal of the door, relishing the chill on her tender scalp. She closed her eyes and waited. She didn’t have to wait long.

Distantly there was the sound of splintering wood, shouting, shuffling footsteps over broken glass. When Joan opened her eyes, they had already surrounded her, a dozen heavily armored men at least. And when they asked her to, she complied and put her hands above her head.


	8. Chapter 8

The procedure of her “arrest” took a little over an hour. Impressive, although Joan didn’t know whether it was efficiency or just a practiced carelessness. The police who handled her, who escorted her from station to station and then finally to the holding room, were nice enough. Almost gentle – at least compared to the Joker’s goons. Nobody looked at her too closely or, when she caught them looking, they glanced away, sheepish. She suspected the bruise on her face had something to do with it.

With nothing else to do, she examined it while she waited, gazing into the ugly green glass of the holding room mirror from across the room. The mirror, speckled with cracks and oily fingerprints, ran along the length of the opposite wall. It was very obviously two-sided, but she didn’t really care. She stared openly at her own reflection, turning her head left and right to get a look at the ruddy purple bruise creeping across her cheek and her right temple.

She had never liked looking at herself. Or maybe, never liked the way she looked. She was dark like her mother was, like her mother _had been_. Her mouth, her eyes, impossibly huge, her hair, coarse, black, unyielding. The resemblance was unsettling. Her father had told her so. Even when she was a child, she had seen the way his eyes would move over her too quickly, as if he couldn’t stand it. Even then, she had understood that it haunted him, this alien child that looked nothing like him. That had taken nothing and everything from him.

In Sawyer, people would stare. When they walked together, hand in hand, along the wide stretch of the beach, people would stare and wonder to themselves how such a nice, _white_ man had wound up with such a _dark_ child. Her father had tried to be as gentle as possible when he told her, to put it as simple as possible for a child. But she understood things as they were.

Her mother had not survived bringing her into the world. Joan had split her body and her soul, emerging from that ocean of death for a man who did not want one woman without the other, who feared the ghost of his wife living in her face, who maybe even hated her a little for taking her from him…

She washed down the memories with a sip of coffee, resisting the urge to shudder as she swallowed down the bitter sludge. She dropped the subject from her mind effortlessly, as if she were putting out a cigarette. Instead she focused on her strategy. She had only one reason for getting herself caught by the GCPD and tossed into a holding room; she would be damned if she didn’t make something of it for her trouble.

From across the room, as if on cue, the door gave a startling mechanical buzz and swung slowly open. The man on the other side, shouldering the weight of the door with apparent easy, strode casually into the room. He was young, probably no older than she was, and dark and handsome in an unobvious sort of way. His hair was short, cut close to the scalp– a neat cut, maybe military – but he only gave the impression of being well-kept. Even at a distance, she could tell his tie was cheap and his slacks had been haphazardly ironed. Single. Unbothered. Definitely overworked. As he settled across the table from her, she caught a whiff of fabric softener and the unmistakable aroma of Nicorette. Cinnamon flavored.

She leaned back in her chair, away from him, determined to look in control. Hard to do from the wrong side of an interrogation room table. But she would try.

“Thank you for your patience, Ms. Gallo. I know it’s been a long afternoon for you,” he murmured, laying out the manila folder that he’d had tucked under his arm. As he flipped through its contents, he offered her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “My name is Detective Taos. I’m sure you won’t mind if I go over a few questions with you?”

Joan stifled the urge to look down at the papers on the table, hoping to _God_ that whatever it was, it wasn’t some kind of personal file. She couldn’t quite make out the small type print from where she sat, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to be caught trying. Instead she forced her expression into something like a smile, as much of an answer as the man across from her was going to get right now.

“Joan Gallo, 27, from Maryland…How long have you been living in Gotham?”

“Four years.”

“And before that you were…?” Taos turned a few pages here and there, his eyes flitting across the page “Half-way through a residency at Johns-Hopkins…for…surgery. And before that – pre-med at Northwestern.” He glanced up at her with that same empty half-friendly expression. “Smart cookie. Impressive. What do you do here in Gotham, Ms. Gallo?”

Her stomach had dropped into her ass as her mind raced back over the last few seconds of conversation. _Fuck_. It _was_ a personal file after all. Nothing you couldn’t grab off a half-assed Google search. _But still_ …“I’m unemployed.” In an effort to appear unfazed, she glanced down at her hands, making a show of absently inspecting her fingernails. _Thankfully free of blood_. “But I dabbled in some non-profit work for a few years. Emergency clinics, places like that.”

Taos quirked his eyebrow. “A regular Mother Theresa…and this was after you left your residency?” He flipped a few pages back and forward. “Johns-Hopkins says you took a necessary prolonged leave of absence. Health issues? Mental health maybe?”

She couldn’t help the smirk curling across her mouth. “Mental health? Is that what they’re saying?”

He blinked, apparently caught off guard by her sudden shift in attitude. “Is that what _you’re_ saying, Ms. Gallo?”

 _Ms. Gallo_. She bristled at the heavy condescension in his voice. “I left school on my own terms. And they were happy to see me go.”

“You get yourself into trouble down in Maryland too?”

She grimaced, letting out a long exhale through her nose. “One of the faculty members forced himself on me after hours. I made some noise. But he was a senior resident, and I was fresh meat, stepping out of line.”

Taos made a noise in his throat that sounded almost apologetic. Joan stared him down, unflinching, silently thankful the panic in her blood hadn’t edged its way into her voice. “I’m surprised you didn’t find that in your little Google search,” she remarked absently, “Johns-Hopkins must have beefed up its PR.”

“Well,” he began again after a moment of tense silence, “I’m just trying to figure out how someone with such a…pristine record wound up at the center of a police raid.”

She smirked, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Well your guess is as good as mine. I only wandered into that place for a glass of water. It’s awfully hot out.”

“Do you usually take your morning walks in the seedy parts of town?”, he muttered. “Is that what rich, college-educated girls like you consider tourism nowadays?”

Her smirk widened into a cool smile despite how she was smarting from the “rich girl” comment. “Well, you know, it’s real easy to get yourself turned around in an unfamiliar part of town.”

“If you were just in that bar for a glass of water, as you said, why were caught trying to escape?”

“I was scared. Police coming in through the door, guns blazing, everyone on top of each other – I’d never seen anything like it.” Not entirely untrue; she stifled another smirk. “And those men were nice enough to help me toward an exit.”

Taos gave a short derisive laugh, cracking his gum impatiently. “Do you have any idea what those “nice” men were keeping in the back of that place? Do you have any idea why the police were even there?” He leaned forward suddenly, closing the space between them. “And while we’re on the subject – tell me about that bruise on your face? Did one of those nice men give it to you?”

A hard stone of rage rose up in the back of her throat, so wide and horrible she thought she might scream. But she didn’t. Instead, Joan fixed her face with a blank expression of vague curiosity. He was just another mark, really, she mused. Just another man in her way, ready and willing to believe she was as harmless as she looked. But he was reluctant, and unknowingly playing to her favor. Taos stared hard at her, searching for a crack, a tick, a tell. She stared back and made sure that when he looked at her all he would see in her eyes was his own reflection.

After a moment, he sighed and leaned away from her, looking visibly dissatisfied. She thought she saw a little shame too, maybe, at his comment about her face, especially after what she had told him about Johns-Hopkins. “I’ll spare you the gruesome details, Ms. Gallo, but let’s just say you were lucky to leave that bar alive. And with all your organs intact…” He paused to shuffle in his pockets, snapping a few new pieces of gum out of a plastic pack and into his mouth.

“I’m lucky Gotham’s finest came when they did,” she murmured, watching his teeth as he chewed. _What a pretty mouth…_

“Well,” he replied, reshuffling the papers between them and closing her file. Joan felt the hard knot in her throat soften slightly. “If you have no other information you want to volunteer, I believe you’re free to go.” He stood and smoothed his tie, tucking the file underneath his arm and motioning for the door with the other.

Joan followed dutifully, keeping her face frozen, secretly savoring the rush of her victory in her blood. She’d played her part well, assuming the role of innocent bystander with a finesse that surprised even her. However, with any luck she had aroused enough suspicion that they might decide to tail her for the next few weeks. As corrupt and arguably incompetent as the GCPD was, Joan felt better about having a few cops keeping an eye on her activity if that meant evading or even diverting the Joker’s attention. Especially if they were as unconvinced of her innocence as Detective Taos.

The door gave another awful screech as the pair passed over the threshold, walking side by side. They were silent as he led her down the hallway toward processing, where she assumed she’d be signing some paperwork promising not to sue the department for wasting her time. She was anxious to reclaim her things from the front desk where she’d been forced to hand over her phone. Sasha must be losing his mind. She pictured him tearing through her apartment for bail money, jumping every time the cat spit at him in irritation.

“I’m sorry,” Taos muttered suddenly as they rounded a corner for the main lobby.

She blinked. “For what?”

His face made an almost pained expression, as though it hurt to repeat himself. “For what happened to you back in Maryland.”

She glanced away from him, bored by his sudden attempt at sympathy. “What for? You weren’t the one who did it.”

“I shouldn’t have pried.”

“But that’s your job, _Detective_.” And then to her surprise, and to his as well, she started laughing. Maybe it was the sheer absurdity of his stab at self-righteousness or maybe it was the sheer _exhaustion_ spilling over her now as the adrenaline of the last few hours suddenly gave way to reveal how little she had slept in the past 48 hours, but she was still giggling to herself when they arrived at the processing desk. At least until she caught sight of the television behind the desk and the white face flashing across the screen.

The reel played on repeat, silent and hypnotizing in its horror; the camera focused on a man who sat tied to his chair, sweaty, blood-soaked, defeated. Familiar. Hands of purple leather snaked out from behind the camera to caress his face, smacking playfully at his pallid cheeks. And then the camera swung nauseatingly to reveal the camera man, his face moon white, his mouth a red slash of gore, so close up to the lens she swore he might leap out of the screen. The Joker laughed into the camera, flashing the yellow rot of his teeth. Joan already knew what he saying; she heard his voice in her head, wheezing out a death threat and another howl of laughter before the camera spun wildly and fizzled out into nothing before starting over again.

It took a few moments for Joan to realize someone was calling her name. “Ms. Gallo? Is something wrong?” Taos regarded her warily, one hand tucked under her elbow for support.

She blinked and took a slow breath, suddenly aware that all the air had left her. She glanced over at Taos, swallowing thickly. “I’m fine…I’m just...tired I guess.” But she looked into his face and she knew. She knew that _he_ knew, somehow. He had seen the shadow of recognition cross her face and she knew that he could feel the fear radiating off her in great noxious waves. For a moment, her mask of absolute calm broke and she pleaded with him, begging him with her eyes to let it go, to let _her_ go, _please don’t get in my way_ ….

But then the guard on the other side of the desk was passing her things through the glass partition, seemingly unaware of the exchange. The moment was over so quickly she might have imagined it and she hoped that she had.

“Get home safe, Ms. Gallo.” Taos gave her arm a slow squeeze, before he was gone, making his way back down the hall at a half-hurried clip. Joan did not watch him go. She did as she was told.

†

Joan was hardly through the door of her apartment before she was overtaken by Sasha, more animated and more distraught than she had ever seen him. He bombarded her with questions, pawing at the soft parts of her and looking for injury.

“What happened, Joan? Did those pigs fucking hurt you? What did they say? What did you tell them?”

She yielded to him immediately, too tired to answer him or to fight off his affection. She buried her face in his chest, leaning her weight on him completely and taking in the familiar smell of him. Leather. Sweat. The faint chemical stink of cocaine. It was more comforting than she would admit. After a few moments and a few more unanswered questions, he understood. He ushered her into the bedroom, kissing her softly on the top of her head before leaving her to start dinner. With the last of her energy, she stripped down and took a shower. There was a plate of food waiting for her on her bedside table when she got out.

Later on in bed, her belly full and her nerves sated with the last of her whiskey, she explained the last 36 hours as best she could; the Joker and his test, her brief, melodramatic visit with the GCPD. _Damn it al_ l. Sasha twitched beside her every now and then, tightening his grip on her waist so that she had to wriggle out of his suffocating grasp. He wasn’t good at hiding his discomfort. But it was his fault the Joker had found her to begin with. _He can suffer through it with me_ , she thought spitefully. Still, it felt good to tell someone, to tell _anyone_. Joan could feel the knot in her stomach loosen ever so slightly.

“You really think it’s a good idea to encourage the cops to tail you like that?” He asked, his breath tickling the hair at the base of her skull. She shuddered, remembering how the nose of a gun had been nuzzled there not too long ago. “They could trap you, Joanie, could lock you away for life.”

_Somehow that doesn’t sound so bad._

“No, I think it’s a horrible idea,” she replied, careful to keep the note of irritation out of her voice, “But I’ll cash in any defense I can. Worst case scenario is I get sent to prison. The Joker wouldn’t follow me in there. Best case scenario…” Her breath nearly hitched at the thought, it seemed so impossibly _perfect_. “With the cops on my case, I have to quit cutting people open for a living and leave Gotham. For good.”

At this, Sasha tightened his grip on her waist. She stifled the urge to elbow him sharply in the ribs. She knew how much it hurt him to hear her talk about wanting to leave the city. She wouldn’t add insult to injury. Or injury to insult, rather…

“I didn’t name names by the way,” she murmured after a short spell of silence, “I didn’t rat you out.”

Sasha’s throat gave a weird noise. “You think I give a damn about that?” He moved to tighten his grip on her even more, but seemed to think better of it and relaxed. “I’m just glad you’re alive.”

She exhaled slowly, clutching the edge of her pillow rather than his hand. “Yeah…me too.”

With nothing left to say, or perhaps with too much to say, they yielded to the silence. Sleep came to her then, washing over her so suddenly that she didn’t even have time to practice her usual counting, the exhaustion, for once, even stronger than her panic.


	9. Chapter 9

It could not have been but a few hours later when they came. The men in the masks. They crowded around her bed and Joan peered up at them as if in a dream, not certain but _hoping_ that they were just figments of her imagination. But then there was a gun pressed to her temple, and rough, unfamiliar hands on her body and the thud of her feet as they hit the floor, and screaming, screaming from Sasha as he was struck and pulled out of bed, and then she knew she wasn’t dreaming.

“Two birds with one stone, boys.” His voice floated into the room before he did. She could barely see him for the dark, but his face was a wreck of sweat and grease paint. He sauntered over to her where she stood, hoisted up by his goons; despite the usual animal flair of his walk, Joan could tell he was limping. The Joker was hurt. Something had happened.

“Luck be a lady,” he growled, taking her chin in his gloved hand and pinching it hard.

“Don’t fucking touch her!” Sasha shouted from across the room and was almost immediately silenced with a hit to the stomach. The Joker glanced back at him, a look of false surprise playing on his face as he rounded the bed.

“Ooh lover boy! I remember _you_ ,” he called, pressing close to Sasha, his knife flashing in the street lights bleeding in from down on the street, “I do love a hero. Why don’t we see what all those _guts_ look like? Huh?”

She suddenly found her voice, thankful it was not one of the screams that had been building up in the back of her throat. “Please,” she said, “Please…I’ll go wherever you want me to – just…please…don’t...”

The Joker didn’t acknowledge her from where he stood peering up at Sasha. But he was considering her plea; she could see his eyes glinting in the white reflection of his knife, keen and predatory. But impatient. Finally, after what seemed like forever, he turned on his heel, disappearing his knife back into the sleeve of his purple coat as he sauntered back to the doorway.

“Get her shit together and bring her out to the van,” he snapped to the goon at her right shoulder before disappearing into the hall without another word.

The hands on her body were fast and unruly, pulling her up and out of the room with impossible carelessness. Her body fought for control, her feet searching against the floor for purchase. She was hardly able to voice her distress as she watched two of the Joker’s men began to raid her room, one pulling clothes from her closet and her dresser and haphazardly stuffing them into a duffle bag. The other immediately went for the briefcase of surgical tools leaning against the wall.

“What about him, boss?” One of the masked men motioned to Sasha with the barrel of his pistol.

Almost immediately, Joan locked eyes with the Joker who had stopped midway down the hall when he heard the question. And he smiled, something cruel dancing behind his eyes. He crept over to Joan, where she was held in the doorway, taking her face in his hand again. For the first time in a very long time, Joan felt…breakable. Small. Afraid.

“Use your imagination,” he giggled, giving the tip of her nose a hard pinch before turning back toward the door. She stifled her growl of rage and chanced one last look at Sasha, craning her neck painfully to find him in the dark. _Stay alive, you bastard. Stay alive for me_. Her thoughts were so loud, thunderous, echoing in the bitter, empty space at the back of her throat.

“Joan…”

She watched his mouth move around the shape of her name, but she was too far away now to hear him. She turned her head before the beating began, closing her eyes and surrendering to the weight and force of the men around her. She hoped – stupidly, stubbornly – she hoped one of them would be merciful and blindfold her or put a bag over her head or even hit her. Anything so that she wouldn’t have to be so present, so painfully aware of what was happening to her. Again.

The car ride was quicker this time, quieter, except for the idle chatter of the radio and the occasional shuffling around from the Joker in the passenger seat. She did not bother to try to glance out the window for street signs or area markers. In the back of her mind, she knew it was pointless to try and figure her way out of this latest violent interruption of her life.

She would survive this night just like she did the last: by playing along, not fighting back. Not until it was necessary.

The acrid air in the cabin smelled like blood and sweat, and now that they were all seated and still, Joan could see that the Joker’s men were hurt too. One of them had even gotten blood on her clothes from where he’d held her. The driver, who she recognized from before, was driving the car with one arm; the other hung at an awkward angle, tucked close to his chest like a broken wing. She understood then, suddenly, smiling inwardly despite herself.

She was the night nurse. Making a fucking house call for a psychopath and a criminal. A hiccup of something caught in her chest; a laugh, a sob, a scream, she couldn’t tell. She kept her eyes on the road instead, staring into the street lights until her eyes burned, until there was no more lights to follow, until they finally began to slow.

The car turned down an alley, shuddering as it navigated over a sea of trash and debris, and stopped. Almost immediately, the men seized her again, escorting her out into a darkness more thick and absolute than anything she’d ever seen. She was almost thankful for her “guards”, leaning on them for support as they guided her roughly through the darkness. She was as mindful as she could be of the debris on the ground, wary of any broken bits of glass or metal beneath her bare feet.

There was the screech of rusted metal and a doorway appeared in the darkness, spilling sickly green light out into the alley. The group moved in silence through the door and down a series of hallways, following the Joker’s lead. He walked fast, even for his newly acquired limp. Eyeing the back of his head, she remembered then how alarmingly quick he was. Like a spider.

They eventually wandered out into a common area, lit with ten or so dirty bars of fluorescent lights hanging down from the high ceilings. She could see now that they were in a warehouse of some kind. Run down, severely abandoned. She felt that same hiccup of _something_ which might have been laughter building at the back of her throat. _So cliché_.

Of course, the place was a wreck. The walls were crowded with wooden crates and palettes, fold-out tables piled high with weaponry and stinking food trash, army surplus cots strewn with disheveled blankets. In the far left corner, a giant fan was doing a fine job of stirring up one tremendous gust of hot, stinking air after another. At the center of the room, someone had erected a makeshift living room: three old couches and an Easyboy, crowded around the largest television she had ever seen, plugged into the same roaring generator as the fan. The rest of the Joker’s crew were seated there. All of them – there were maybe ten or so from her quick calculations – were injured, bleeding, or broken. All of them were nursing a beer. For one ridiculous moment, Joan wanted one.

The Joker strode right up in front of the huddled mass of men, his silhouette standing out starkly against the harsh white light of the screen and casting a jaunty terrifying shadow across the room. “Boys,” he called, clapping his hands together loudly. It was only then that he managed to get their attention. One of them had the common sense to mute the T.V.

“While I’m so glad you all started the, uh _celebration_ without me,” he drawled, gesturing to the open case of beer at his feet, “We have a guest with us tonight who’s going to make you all feel a lot better about getting beat to shit by the Batman.”

As if on cue, the goon standing to her right gave her a quick brutal shove. She stumbled forward, cursing under her breath. Suddenly under scrutiny, it was then she realized she was wearing her pajamas: an oversized college shirt and some ratty sweat pants. She was thankful, at least, she’d elected for clothes that night. She couldn’t help the heat crawling up and along the back of her neck, so she crossed her arms over her chest and glared off at some unseen spot in the far corner of the ceiling.

Silence.

They stared at her as if waiting for her to say something.

“You a doctor?” Someone called from the couch.

She blinked. “Not exactly.” She was glad her voice sounded sure, even if she wasn’t.

More silence, save for the low growl of the generator.

 _Christ – this would be a long night._ She sighed, rolling her eyes. “So…who’s up first?”

†

The work was easier than she expected. It was hard work certainly – resetting bones and sewing up battle scars for fidgety strangers without any kind of analgesic was not necessarily a breeze – but it was a cake walk in comparison to the Joker’s first “medical” assignment. She shuddered at the memory, still so fresh in her mind ( _had that only been two days ago?_ ), as she lay back against the wall, shifting her weight on the cot and the dingy pillow underneath her butt. The mattress let out a moan and a small puff of dust. Through heavy eyes, she watched the mites rise up to spiral in the dead air illuminated by the glow of a streetlight somewhere outside.

They’d set her up with someplace to rest, a small and surprising act of charity. A room to herself, equipped with a dirty cot and a single folding chair. But no real bathroom unfortunately, only a large basin like sink plugged into the wall to her left. It may have been covered in rust and grime, but it was functional; she’d been sure to wash her hands and her arms up to the elbow, scrubbing away what she could without the help of soap. But the rest of her was still filthy, covered in sweat and blood that did not belong to her. But she was finally alone. No more staring eyes, no more leering grins, no more hands on her, pushing and pulling. She could finally have a moment to think…

The door on the opposite side of the room flung open suddenly with a flurry of sound and color.

“Knock, knock!”

 _Fuck_.

Joan tensed, sitting up immediately, as she watched the Joker saunter into the room. He came alone, dressed down in his shirt and slacks, suspenders hanging loosely at his sides and jangling with every step.

“Wake up, doc! You’re not done for the night,” he called, his voice too loud for the quiet little room. He pulled the folding chair over to the side of the bed, purposefully dragging the legs along the concrete floor to create as much horrible noise as possible. “Not until _I_ say so.”

She did not move, glaring up at him from her place on the bed. Her scowl flickered momentarily when she realized he wasn’t wearing any makeup. His face had been hastily wiped clean. There were still swatches of white clinging to his hairline and embedded in the deep lines of his scars, but he looked almost – _normal_. She decided she didn’t like it.

“Whatsa matter?” he growled, giving the side of the mattress a light kick, “I got something on my face?”

She sighed, swallowing her uneasiness and doing her best to keep her fear guarded behind a look of contempt. “How can I help you?” The sooner you give him what he wants, the sooner he will let you go, the sooner you will get out of here…

He giggled, seemingly amused by her discomfort, and busied himself with the buttons of his sullied dress shirt. “You didn’t think I’d miss the opportunity for another one of your special checkups?”

Joan watched warily as he shrugged out of his shirt sleeves, suddenly more uncomfortable than she thought possible. Seeing him without his face paint was one thing. _This_ was something else entirely. She did her best to stifle the heat and color rising in her face as she stood up from the mattress and went to collect her briefcase of supplies. After dragging the bag over to the side of his chair, she retrieved a pair of black latex gloves – what felt like her hundredth pair of the evening. She took her time, laying out her tools methodically. Tweezers, suture, antiseptic…

“Chop, chop Joanie!” He barked, making sure to shout directly into her ear. “I haven’t got all night to play doctor. And, uh –” He bent suddenly and caught her wrist, wrenching it out of its place inside her briefcase. His grip felt tight enough to bruise. “No _funny_ business with that scalpel of yours? Got it?”

She grit her teeth and tried to pull away, but his fingers only tightened around the delicate bone. He stared down at her, waiting for a reply. She glared back at him and dipped her chin once in a quick nod, the only promise of obedience he was going to get. That seemed to satisfy him. His fingers uncurled themselves from around her wrist and he relaxed back into the chair, the veil of dark menace pulling away from his face in an instant. He smacked his lips thoughtfully and shook his head, glancing away from her as if there was anything else in the room to draw his attention.

 _Unbelievable_.

She supposed this was her cue. She got to work, eyes moving quickly over his torso, careful not to linger over one spot too long. But it was easier said than done. His body was an incredible, grotesque thing. Pale and puckered and crisscrossed with brutal, jagged lines of dull pink and silver. He was thin too, thinner than he appeared under his massive, hulking coat; thin but wiry, and tense, like a fighter.

There was a bruise blossoming along the right side of his chest. It was already an ugly shade of purple, and the blood was spreading fast under the skin. She grimaced, reaching out to touch it tentatively. The Joker only hummed, a noise bubbling up from low in his chest. The sound vibrated under her fingertips. It was then she noticed how warm he was, almost feverish to the touch. _Too human. Too real_. She watched his face as she tested the rest of him, moving her hands over his chest and his middle to feel for signs of damage. He stared right back, his eyes somehow softer, and yet still so _black_ even without the grease paint.

It was when she reached for the ribs on his right side that she finally got a reaction. He hissed in pain, growling as she pressed into the tender skin. She might have been pressing a little harder than necessary, but if he noticed he didn’t say anything. His snarl quickly dissolved into a dark chuckle as she withdrew her hands.

“You’ve got two bruised ribs and a few nasty contusions,” she murmured decidedly, “Nothing much I can do for that.” She leaned back to sit on her haunches. “But what about that limp?”

He quirked an eyebrow, staring down his nose at her. She nodded at his leg for a bit of emphasis. “May I have a look?”

“Nothing gets by you, doc.”

Wordlessly, he slid his right leg out from under him. His left leg continued to bounce, the movement enough to make the metal clips of his suspenders clink repeatedly against the chair. Without thinking, annoyed by the relentless noise, she reached up and placed a hand on his knee, giving it a tight quick squeeze. He stilled, and she glanced up at him, meeting his eye. There was a warning there, glinting in the darkness like a blade.

He might have been the one sitting exposed and vulnerable under her hands, and her scalpel might have been waiting in the medical bag beside her – but he was still very much in control. And she was very much still at his mercy. _Understood_. Slowly she removed her hand and turned back to her work, gingerly rolling the cuff of his slacks up his calf and over the bend of the knee.

She had been right – he was hurt. The gash was no more than a few centimeters long, but it was deep, already caked with dirt and dried blood. She reached for the bottle of rubbing alcohol, quickly soaking a pad of gauze.

“What’s the prognosis, doc?” He muttered, the flutter of a giggle in the back of his throat. “Ya think I’ll live?”

This time she didn’t bother to be gentle as she cleaned away the grime, taking quiet satisfaction in his hiss of pain. “You’ll need stitches…promise you won’t tear them out this time?”

“And here I thought you’d forgotten all about the night we met.” He was practically purring, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

“How could I?” she sighed, tossing the dirty cotton aside and reaching for her suture. “You won’t let me forget.”

There were a few moments of silence as she threaded the suture, frowning as she struggled to concentrate for the deafening quiet of the room. She swore she could hear the staccato thrum of his pulse, could feel the flutter of his blood beneath her fingers. She had never been so close to him before. She’d never seen him so calm, so still. It was unnerving.

“You know I’m…not really a doctor.” She couldn’t believe she was making fucking _small talk._ Then again - anything was better than the silence.

“Oh?” He mused, his voice dripping with false curiosity. She glanced up at him briefly to see he was examining his nails in an almost comical display of disinterest. “So, uh, you pick that shirt up at the gift shop?”

She smiled despite herself, careful not to let him see. “No…I just…never finished school…” She trailed off, not bothering to finish her explanation. She wasn’t sure why she was telling him all this. That was twice in one day now, bringing up the _incident_ to another stranger, another strange man...For the moment, she would chalk it up to utter exhaustion. Plus this new silent and still side of the Joker made her nervous. As if she were on a bad date and had to keep filling the silence with chatter.

“How come?”

She was so engrossed in her own thoughts she almost didn’t hear him. To be honest, she was surprised he was even paying attention to her. “Oh, um…” She glanced up at him briefly to find he was staring down at her again, his attention seeming to pin her to the spot. She looked back at her work, busying herself with the nearly completed stitch in an effort to keep the heat from rising in her face. “I…ran out of money.” It was not entirely a lie, but also not entirely true. At least she thought so…she couldn’t quite remember as clearly anymore…

Her answer seemed to amuse him, his face stretching into a sort. of smile that was really more like a grimace, his mottled skin twisting up and away from his teeth. “So naturally you turn to back-alley surgery for some extra dough.”

“Naturally.” Her voice sounded very small and very faraway, as if it were coming from someone else. She did not look at him, chewing on the inside of her cheek and focusing intently on his wound instead. Two more stitches to go. She decided, perhaps unwisely, to change the subject. “How long do you plan on keeping me here?”

She felt him give a noncommittal shrug, the chair whining beneath him as he shifted his weight. “Haven’t decided.”

Another fresh wave of heat in her blood. This time it was rage instead of fear. “Am I a prisoner?”

“Uh, nope. You’re free to go as far as I’m concerned.” He scratched his head, tilting his face to look down at her. She still didn’t look at him, but she could feel his eyes, bearing into the top of her skull. “Then again there is no guarantee you’ll be able to find your way out of the Narrows. Or that I won’t just hunt you down again and pluck you out of whatever hiding spot you choose next. I figure it saves us both the trouble of the old run-around. Although…,” He bent at the waist suddenly, invading her space with a swiftness that frightened her. He paused, his mouth hovering just above her ear. “I _doooo_ love the chase.”

She couldn’t stop the shudder as it rolled through her body, echoing like thunder in all of her empty spaces. She kept her face set, tying the end of the last stitch with a slow, practiced sureness, and did her best to slow her breathing. It was difficult though. She breathed him in with every inhale. _Rot, gasoline, death_.

“There are plenty of other doctors in this city,” she murmured, pulling her hands away from him and setting the suture aside for a bandage. “Plenty of mob doctors doing patch up work, plenty of them willing to be bought for their silence. Why me?”

The question sounded far less pitiful in her mind, but it was out now, hanging lamely in the air. She looked at him, finally, hoping that the gritty fire in her expression might make her seem less afraid. He was still so close and she could feel the warm flutter of his breath on her cheek. They stared at one another, his face curled into a curiously familiar expression. It was the same look he’d given her back in her apartment so many days ago – he was sizing her up. Looking for _something_ …She returned his gaze evenly, yielding momentarily to her own curiosity, afraid as she might have been. He wasn’t nearly so monstrous without the makeup. There was the ghost of something attractive in his face, in his mouth in particular…the parts of it that had not been torn so crudely with a blade. She blinked slowly, in idle wonder. _He has freckles on his nose…_

“Don’t sell yourself short, kid.” He growled, breaking the momentary spell of silence. “I think you’re just right for the job.” He gripped her chin tightly and gave it a wag, a gesture so intensely condescending she nearly struck him in the face. Instead, she jerked away, doing her best to evade his grasp, turning away to start throwing her tools back into her bag.

“And if I disagree?”

“Well,” he chirped, settling back in his seat, splaying his fingers and placing a hand on each knee, “I would probably cut off your hands, Joanie. I think that’d be a good start – don’t you?”

She froze, momentarily lost to her own fear and revulsion, just long enough for him to see. It was the obvious second of weakness he had been hungry for, since the moment he’d found her, the moment he’d ripped her out of bed in the middle of the night. He had it now. He had her now and he knew it.

“And then, maybe I’d, uh sew them back on. Backwards. Pull an ol’ switcheroo with that needle and thread of yours. But maybe I’d wait a little while, let the skin die…” He was close again, Death whispering Disease, Disease whispering Death against the soft shell of her ear. “Did they teach you what gangrene smells like in school, Joanie? Or maybe you’d like to find out for yourself?”

He started to laugh then, big whooping cackles of laughter, that would have almost sounded fake if they weren’t so fucking menacing. Joan got up then, kicking aside her bag as she moved quickly to the sink at the other side of the room. _Anything_ to get away from him. Her hands, filthy again with his blood, were beginning to itch…

She turned the faucet on full blast, hoping the sound of the water thundering down into the basin would drown out his laughter. The water was too hot, but she didn’t give it a second thought as she began to scrub her hands, using her fingernails to shred any remnant of him from her skin. As she scrubbed, she focused on her breathing, counting down, hoping it would help.

_10\. 9. 8._

Ridiculous fucking counting game. After the threat of mutilation.

_7\. 6. 5._

_Breathe damn it._ The bitter smell of blood was beginning to turn her stomach.

 _4.3_ –

She realized then that the room had gone suddenly quiet. Slowly, her arms raw and pink from the force of the wash, she switched off the water, waiting, listening, hoping that he was not looming just behind her, hungry for a cheap scare. _Christ, he’s so much more terrifying when he’s quiet…_

She held her breath and turned herself around, letting out a sharp exhale when she found herself alone. He was gone. Sitting in his place, sweating lightly in the heat of the room, was a single can of beer.


	10. Chapter 10

There was no telling how much time had passed since the Joker had left her alone. She’d sat for God knows how long watching the door from where she lay on the mattress, daring the doorknob to jiggle under the weight of the folding chair she’d braced under it.

She’d almost thought twice about taking the beer. But after inspecting the can for puncture marks, she decided she deserved a fucking drink. She took deep slow sips, eager to wash away the taste of fear in the back of her throat, mindful of the furious hunger gnawing at her insides. At some point, between sleep and restlessness, she had started to cry. The sob that had been building in her chest for the last two days surged up suddenly, spilling out of her like steam. She managed in silence, chewing on the lip of the beer can until her teeth hurt when she could no longer keep her jaw from quivering.

In her defense, it had been a long day.

She didn’t remember falling asleep, but she must have because suddenly she was waking up. The dream was already fading fast, nothing now but the smell of disinfectant, stinging, sterile, lingering in her nose.

There was a brief moment of pain as she rolled over and sat up, her hand suddenly connecting with the empty beer can lying on the cot beside her. Cursing, she chucked the thing across the room and it was then she realized that the door on the far side of the room was wide open, the chair lying not a few feet away, and that she wasn’t alone.

She felt her breath leave her all at once and she froze, suddenly aware of the shadow hovering to her left, just at the edge of the mattress. She didn’t have to look to know it was a man and to know it wasn’t the Joker. He was a creep and he loved an unpleasant surprise at her expense, but watching her sleep was an entirely different thing, one that she didn’t believe he possessed the patience for.

No, the man standing beside her bed, twitching sickly in the dark, was a stranger. Probably a henchman who had gotten a little too curious. Without moving her head, Joan swiveled her eyes in her skull to peer up at him and with a flash of horror, she saw what he was doing as he stood beside her, half-naked, whining and grunting quietly as he clutched and pulled at himself. He didn’t stop when she was started suddenly, wincing away from him, trying to put as much space between them as possible. He let out a loud keening moan and she watched his face contort into something like a grin or a grimace, his hand speeding up viciously on his cock, and she realized how much pleasure her fear and revulsion gave him.

She felt something snap inside of her.

Her hand curled around the scalpel she had stashed under the pillow and she lunged at him, growling. The end of the blade connected with his hand, cutting him cleanly across his knuckles. He whipped his hand away, howling in pain, and she took another shot, swinging and slicing the tip of his penis. That elicited an even louder scream and he stumbled back, tripping over her medical bag and knocking it over as he fell to the floor. She stood, stepping lithely off the mattress and over her scattered tools, following after him as he tried to scuttle away from her.

“What’s the matter, fucker?” she cooed darkly, jabbing the scalpel at him on the last hard syllable for emphasis, “Don’t like me so much now that I’m awake, huh?” The words sounded strange, cruel, dripping from her mouth, as if they belonged to someone else. But she pushed the thought aside as she stalked after the man on the floor, focusing her anger and her disgust, raising her foot to bring it down where he was cradling the wound she had given him.

But suddenly there was a hand curled around her forearm and she was being walked, no, dragged, out of the room and she was looking up into a familiar face ( _she hated how familiar it was to her now_ ) and the Joker was smacking his lips in a play of disapproval. “Can’t leave you alone even for a _minute_ , Joanie, not for one _measly minute_.” She fixed her mouth to snap at him that it wasn’t her fault, that she had tried to lock the door, but she suddenly couldn’t see the sense in it and she kept quiet, letting him guide her down a series of short dark hallways, silent except the screams of the man they had left behind and the hum of far off generators. Eventually, they came to a non-descript door which the Joker flung open. In one fluid motion, without breaking his stride, he slung her into the room and swung back around, still mumbling to himself as he slammed the door behind him.

Joan stood there stupidly for a few moments, blood humming in her ears from the sudden influx of adrenaline. She stared at the door, waiting, counting down slowly from ten and listening for the smack and shuffle of his footsteps. Nothing. For now.

Still counting, she turned away, taking inventory of the new space. From the sick reddish light of the lamp burning in the corner, she could see that the room was, without a doubt, the Joker’s. The floor was strewn with clothes and wooden crates overflowing with ammunition, wires, and odd bits of machinery. There was a full cot lying against the far wall, dressed haphazardly with a wrinkled set of black sheets. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a desk, sitting just to the left of a doorway that Joan would assume was a restroom or closet, littered with paper, spare gun parts, dirty plates, and a few crushed beer cans. The wall above the desk had been collaged with pieces of paper ripped from newspapers and yellow legal pads and stuck up to the smooth cement with tape and what looked like gum.

Suddenly too tired to be curious, she didn’t move to inspect the looping, spidery scrawl or disturbing drawings in black pen etched across every inch of paper on the Joker’s desk. Instead she headed straight for the bed, lowering herself down onto the mattress. She realized then that she was still clutching her scalpel, her hands sticky with drying blood and so she set the little blade down and set to wiping her hands absently on the bed.

Joan drew her knees up to her chin as she sat and she waited, staring into the lamp across the room to stay awake, listening hard. Faintly, in the dark distance beyond the room, she heard screaming, more feral and horrifying than the screams she’d heard before, rising, reaching a fever pitch, before cracking and dying suddenly into silence. More silence. Then, a banging sound, sporadic, like hammer and nail. And then finally, footsteps, drawing closer.

The door flew open and in a sharp moment of déjà vu, she watched the Joker stride in slowly. He slammed the door shut behind him and moved further into the room, his chest heaving up and down rapidly beneath his white undershirt. Despite the noise and the familiar menace and the blood on his face, she felt almost _relieved_ to see him. An appalling thought. But at least if she were with him, she wouldn’t have to worry about waking up to some other sick shit standing over her with his dick out…

Hopefully.

The Joker stopped short, squinting around in the darkness for a moment until his eyes found her, perched on the edge of his bed like a little animal. They stared at one another for a moment, and Joan pulled her knees tighter to her, as though they might shield her from him. His expression was nearly unreadable in the dim light, but she thought she saw something grim in the lines of his naked face, as if he were somehow too exhausted to make a joke at her expense.

He shifted his weight uneasily and sucked his teeth, pulling up the front of his shirt to wipe the blood from his face and hands.

“I hate perverts,” he muttered with a sigh, pausing momentarily to toss the knife in his hand onto his desk where it landed with a low clatter. He didn’t bother to shrug out of his sullied shirt as he shuffled over to the bed, collapsing face-first into the mess of sheets beside her.

On instinct, she grabbed up the scalpel and shifted away from him ever so slightly, not caring that she was now practically sitting on the floor. She stared down at him over her shoulder, waiting for him to leap up suddenly and grab at her. Instead, after a few beats, he turned his head, peering up at her from behind a curtain of faded green hair.

“Sure is a funny way to thank a man who just, uh…handled a pest,” he muttered, eyeing the knife in her hand and giving his lips a quiet smack. He propped his head up on his hand and rolled onto his side, striking an almost grotesquely flirtatious pose. “Are you going to come to bed without a fight? Or do I need to get the chloroform?”

“To bed?”

He nodded.

“Here?”

A wag of his eyebrows.

“Fuck no,” she spat, hoisting herself to her feet and taking several steps away from him. She did her best to ignore the sudden rush of blood to her head.

They stared at each other for a moment, watching one another in the darkness. His eyes burned, glinting like gun mental in the low fiendish light, but his expression was entirely opaque. And then – he shrugged.

“Suit yourself, Joanie.” He grunted, and the mattress gave a wheeze and a jolt as he shifted on the bed. “You can always take your old room. Although in a few hours, that body in there is really going to r _eek…buuuut_ I suppose you’re used to that, huh?” He gave a snorting chuckle and rolled onto his stomach, wriggling his lanky body into the sheets before burying his head in the cradle of his arms.

She stood back from the mattress and stared down at his body, feeling a wave of disbelief rock through her. _So that was that?_ She wondered. No fight, no petty argument... The last time she had seen him so passive, so horizontal, she had just slid a needle into his arm and was preparing to put his face back together. Seeing him like this – half asleep already, curled up cozy as an animal in its nest – was more surreal than anything that had happened in the last few days.

All of which were now washing over her, pushing at the base of her skull with the steady throb of a bad headache. Throwing one last look down at the Joker to make sure he wasn’t merely playing possum, Joan tucked the scalpel back into her pocket and turned back to the rest of the room. The only other seat was at the desk. It would have to do.

Quiet as she could manage, she settled herself in the lone folding chair, wincing at the cold of the metal bleeding through her thin sweats. She was careful not to disturb the pile of paper and pens and other junk on the desk, resisting the petulant urge to merely fling the mess onto the floor like an angry child.

Instead, she folded her arms on the tabletop and cradled her head, making sure to angle herself to keep the Joker in her line of sight. She eyed him for a minute or so, watching the steady rise and fall of his back until she found herself unconsciously matching his breathing, growing drowsier with every breath. Eventually she gave up on her watch and let her eyes fall closed, hoping at least, that she wouldn’t dream.

†

She was still unconscious when she realized she was falling, back and down, still half-asleep and then confused and then angry with pain when she collided with the stone floor.

“Wakey wakey!”

_Too loud, he’s always too damn loud…_

Joan blinked once, twice, trying to shake the temptation to simply roll over and fall back asleep, trying to remember that she was still in danger. The Joker was very much awake now, still barefaced, still dressed in the bloodied undershirt from the night before, standing over her with a mean shine in his eyes. She glanced away from him, embarrassed despite herself, wondering idly how long he had been watching her sleep before he probably got bored.

“You pushed me?” She spat, getting to her feet with as much grace as she could manage and taking a minute to rub at her shoulder, smarting from when it had connected with the floor.

“Were you expecting a courtesy call?” He snickered as he slid into the now vacant folding chair, wriggling his ass a bit on the metal seat as he braced his forearms on the desk. “Thanks for keeping it warm for me, sweetheart.” He clicked his teeth absently at her, already consumed with the nearest piece of random metal trash.

It was a dismissal. Joan wrestled with the faint urge to fight, her mind and her heart still ringing wildly with the alarm of being woken up so brusquely. But she swallowed it down. Better to conserve her energy, what little she had, for whatever came next.

With one final glare in his direction, she left the Joker to his tinkering and his scribbling. She felt absently at the scalpel in her pocket as she moved for the door across the room, willing her unease away as best she could. The thought of aimlessly roaming the facility didn’t exactly appeal to her, but it beat hanging around the Joker. Waiting for him to get bored and eventually strike upon some newfound inspiration for casual cruelty. Yes, anything else would do nicely.

She tried her old room first. The coast was clear, the danger defeated, if the appendage nailed to the door frame was any indication, hanging above the entrance like a bad omen. _He really does hate perverts_ , she thought cooly, tilting her head as she examined the dried and mangled bit of flesh where it hung just above her head, still a little pink where it had once been stiff with blood.

The body was gone. All that was left was a sizable puddle of gore in the center of the room. The mattress – her mattress – had soaked up a considerable amount of blood. She stared at it: soggy, lumpen, beyond saving. The same could not be said, thankfully, for her tools. They’d gone flying when she’d tried to defend herself, and had somehow been unscathed in the ensuing raucous.

She sighed inwardly, picking them up as she moved nimbly through the mess, grateful at least that the blood was dry. An old familiar worry bubbled up in the back of her mind: her tools were compromised, unsanitary, no good for surgery. She couldn’t work like this. But she’d made the same complaints before and wound up with a gun at the base of her skull. No use for it. And what did she care if she kept things clean? What did she care if they all got sick from sharing blood? If they all wound up dead or halfway there, she’d be hailed as a hero. The mayor would probably award her the key to the city.

When she’d cleaned up as best she could and her things were tucked away safely in her briefcase, she kept moving. The Joker had assured her there was no point in trying to escape and she mostly believed him. Wouldn’t hurt to clock her exits. Besides – she’d sooner eat her own arm than play obedient puppy to that maniac.

The hallway eventually spat her out into the main room of the warehouse. Still dark, still sprawling, but she could see now that there were windows tucked high against the wall opposite her. They were filthy, caked with dirt and grime, but they were glowing, sickly, yellow, with sunshine. She stared for a moment, dumbstruck by the sudden realization that she had no idea what time it was, what day it was, that she’d lost another chunk of time to all of this miserable bullshit.

Something more pathetic, more resigned than rage beat weakly inside her chest. She managed to tear her eyes away from the window and moved further into the room, her retinas still flashing with the sudden glimpse of light. Glancing around, she found she was mostly alone. There were a couple henchmen, sans clown masks, sort of milling about around a nearby table. They looked almost bored, as if they were waiting for instruction maybe. One of them caught her eye as she approached the makeshift living room thrown together at the center of the room. His eyes widened and he cursed, loud enough for her to hear, before turning away to mutter something to his buddy.

She watched them, face tight with distrust, as she settled into the couch, glancing away only to look for the television remote. After some digging, she uncovered it, along with about two dollars in change, stuffed under one of the cushions. She was thankful at least that the lumpy thing didn’t smell as bad as it looked.

The television got about four and a half channels, if you could count the jagged greenish picture rolling down the screen in slow steady succession on 4 an actual channel. Then there was the Spanish channel, mostly grain, something Evangelical and equally grainy, and finally the news. Predictably, the gallery of various anchors and talking heads only had one thing to talk about and he was sitting just down the hall from her, probably scribbling some love letter to Batman.

Apparently, last night (yes, it _was_ last night, she was glad to confirm for herself) the Joker had shown up at her place fresh from crashing some political fundraiser. High-brow shit, hosted by Bruce Wayne of all people. He’d been hunting for Harvey Dent, but he’d left empty handed and beaten stupid by Batman, who’d made his own ridiculous appearance. Somewhere in all that action, the Joker had also managed to throw someone out of a window.

 _Christ_.

Joan wasn’t all that well-versed in city politics, but Harvey Dent was big news. She’d seen his pretty face plastered on plenty of newsstands and bus benches. The new D.A. had been making _serious_ waves and serious enemies in the last few months, making busts on the mob and actually managing to put a handful of big-time lackeys behind bars. He moved fast, with flash, like he had nothing to lose, like he wasn’t afraid of waking up one night to a group of mob cronies standing at the foot of his bed with brass knuckles and crowbars.

Who knows? Maybe he was dirty himself. Maybe he was just counting on all that audacity to carry him to police commissioner or even all the way to mayor. Joan didn’t really care either way. If he was legitimately trying to do some good then she pitied him. As far she was concerned there was no point in trying to suck poison from the wound. Gotham was the poison. The Golden Boy would only wind up making himself sick.

“Hey.”

She nearly jumped out of her skin, whipping around to find the source of the sudden voice that had crept up the back of her neck. The man, the same one who had stared at her when she came in, was standing about three feet or so away from the left end of the couch. She swallowed the shout building at the back of her throat, opting instead for silence and a wary eye.

“You hungry?” He was young looking, certainly younger than her by a few years, and had the drawn, peakish look of a junkie, the same skittish black eyes that Sasha had. She could recall treating him last night, how eerily silent and still he’d been when she’d popped his arm back into its socket. She wondered how the fuck he’d wound up here.

“Yeah,” she replied, and she meant it. The meal Sasha had made her the night before had been heavy, but that felt like eons ago. He nodded, ducking his head as though he were suddenly embarrassed he had asked and turning on the spot.

She watched him go, feeling as if she ought to be worried he might return with something inedible or worse, something poisonous. He was nearly to the mouth of the hallway, about to slip out of sight and into the darkness, when the Joker emerged, They crossed paths momentarily, the Joker making a show of suspicion, screwing up his freshly painted face in a ridiculous squint as the poor kid shuffled quickly away.

The Joker’s gaze eventually found Joan on the couch. She glanced away then, pressing herself into the cushions, hoping wildly that she could melt into the dirty upholstery and disappear.

“Making new friends, Joanie?”

_No such luck._

He plopped down beside her with such violence that she felt her end of the couch lift slightly. He stretched out, spreading out his legs and curling his arm the back of the couch until he had effectively taken up the entire thing. Joan resisted the urge to roll her eyes, sure that that would get them plucked out of her skull.

“Little word of advice,” he muttered, sighing as he settled in, “Don’t get too chummy. Never know when they might -” He gave a wave of his hand, “Disappear.”

“Or lose their dicks.”

He smiled at that, a low, mean, animal smile, the one she was so afraid of. “And whaddya say, doc? Good work? I want your professional opinion.”

She shrugged one shoulder, keeping her eyes trained on the television screen, determined not to give him her full attention. She could tell it was starting to bother him and it made her almost gleeful. “I’ve seen better.”

It was a mistake. She knew it the moment the words left her mouth. The Joker’s hand was in her hair, pulling tight enough to make her gasp, to make her eyes well with tears.

“Careful, Joanie,” he growled, suddenly so close to her, the heat of his body, of his breath, rolling over her in waves. He gave her head a quick, hard jerk – the sort of thing one might do to a disobedient dog – and then he was gone, settled back at his end of the couch, watching the television, his eyes glassy and bright, as if nothing had happened.

“So what’s on the old boob tube, huh?” The Joker said, his tone almost conversational. “More of the same shit?”

Joan sat still, not daring to move, willing the tears away, willing her pulse to slow the rush in her ears. “You’re on the news.”

He made a noncommittal sound low in his throat, as if he were unsurprised. Unimpressed maybe.

“What do you want with Harvey Dent?” He looked at her then, his coal-black brow coiled in a quizzical expression. “Wanted to shake his hand, of course. Thank him for all the hard work he’s done putting all those mob fools behind bars, cleaning up this city.”

She laughed before she could catch herself, the sound ringing out of her throat in one quick, bright burst.

“You think I’m joking?” His tone was dark. His eyes were darker.

Her laughter died on her tongue, as bitter as the smile she gave him. “Never.”

They stared at one another for a moment and Joan flinched when he started suddenly, half-expecting him to leap across the couch and grab her again. Instead, he raised a finger, sullied with white greasepaint, his red mouth fixed in a perfectly ugly 'o'.

“That reminds me.” He glanced away, turning instead to rummage through the pockets of his purple slacks. When he turned to face her again, he was holding a small black phone. Joan recognized it immediately as one of the crappy little burner phones she used when she worked, usually to contact Mason and even Sasha on occasion. It must have been hiding in her duffle bag, the one the Joker’s men had packed for her the previous night.

“ _This_ was buzzing non-stop, driving me crazy.” He threw it at her, into her lap. “Please call lover boy and tell him you’re not dead so I can finally have some peace and quiet around here.”

She looked at it and then at him, dumbly. “You’d let me call him?”

He shrugged, his painted face awash with boredom. “Sure. Call him. Call anyone you like. Call the goddamn piggies if it suits your fancy. No one’s coming to rescue you, Joanie.”

Her stomach turned over at his words, despair, deep and horrible, threatening to crawl up her throat and erupt out of her mouth in a sob. She knew he was right, and he knew she knew. _Bastard_.

His face split suddenly with a smile, seemingly satisfied with the gloom passing over her own face like a veil. “I’m going out now, got a few errands to run.” He sprung to his feet and gave a quick stretch and a shake, as if coming out of a deep sleep. He looked down at her over his right shoulder, that familiar mean smile still simmering on his lips. “Try and behave while I’m gone, Joanie. I’d really hate to lose another goon.”

She opened her mouth, ready to argue - but he was already walking away, whistling to the other only other person in the room, the lackey following after him like some sort of dog. She watched them go, disappearing back into the black of the far hallway, her mouth bitter with the taste of fury.

She was fucked. Well and truly fucked and out of options. She couldn’t leave, couldn’t escape, because she had no idea where she was, no clue how to get back to where she’d been. And the Joker, unfortunately, was right. She might not make it out of the Narrows. A woman alone in this neighborhood was marked. No amount of skill with a scalpel would be able save her then. Sure, she could call Sasha, call the cops, let them know she was alive and in the custody of an absolute maniac, but what good would that do? Sasha and his mob friends certainly wouldn’t come to her rescue. And the cops – even the least crooked of their numbers – wouldn’t dare wander into the Joker’s hideout just to save some nobody black market surgeon.

The only person who had the slightest advantage, the slimmest chance of finding her, dressed in a rubber bat suit every night to run around the rooftops of Gotham. The thought forced something out of her, a strange noise, something between a sob and a laugh from the back of her throat.

She swallowed, hard, determined not to let more of that pitiful noise out into the air. Instead, she picked up the phone in her lap and flipped it open. By some stupid miracle, the battery was more than half charged. She found herself holding her breath as she clicked through the main menu.

Ten missed calls from Sasha. Twice as many messages, loud, brash strings of repetitive text, pleas for a sign of life running into one another. But there was something off. It was the time-stamps. After about 6:00 or 7:00 AM, the messages simply stopped. The first eight or so calls had come in quick succession. Joan could imagine Sasha manic with fear, calling and hanging up at the sound of the tone, calling, hanging up, again and again. But the last two calls were different. Two to three hours apart. Measured. Calm. Two things that Sasha was not, could never be.

Without hesitation, she hit the callback button and held the crappy flip phone up to her ear, holding her breath as she waited for whoever would pick up on the other end. A click and a pause. A subtle, whirring noise, an unmistakable warning that this call was being recorded.

“Miss Gallo,” The voice was calm, almost polite. “We meet again.”

_Ah._

“Detective Taos,” she sighed, releasing the breath she’d been holding, “Hi.”

More of that whirring noise in the background.

“Glad you could find a moment to pick up,” he murmured. Joan wondered distantly where some cops got all this skill for smooth, idle small talk.

“Yeah, well, I’m a popular girl,” she replied, throwing a quick glance around the room to make sure she was really alone. Satisfied, she hunkered further down into the couch, pulling her feet up under her as she hunched down around the receiver of the phone. “How’d you get this number?”

“A friend of yours.” She could practically hear the smirk in her voice. “Came into the station raving about the Joker early this morning. Claimed you’d been abducted by a pack of clowns.”

Joan blinked, thinking suddenly of Sasha charging into the nearest police station, frazzled, pale and sweating, putting aside his hatred of the cops, his fear of going down, for her. To save her. She felt something rising in her throat again and swallowed quickly.

“Well?” Taos voiced crackled over the line.

“Well,” she echoed, swallowing hard again for good measure, “You must be clicking your heels, detective. Caught a mobster and his moll in the same day.”

“Sure,” he tittered, his amusement sounding halfway genuine, “Only question I have is what is the moll is doing shacked up with another man.”

She grimaced, stomach turning at the implication. “I’m asking myself the same question.”

A pause.

“What? You can’t sincerely believe I’m one of the Joker’s minions,” she muttered, the venom seeping through on her tongue before she could stop it. “Thirty-six hours ago you couldn’t even pin me with enough bullshit to keep me at the station.”

“Where are you?” Taos barked, seemingly sour that his game had been spoiled.

“Honestly, I have no idea,” she replied, “I’m not a prisoner, but I’m not exactly free to go either.”

“So you admit you’re working with the Joker?” Her mind raced, running back over her words to find where he might’ve found enough of a jagged edge or a foul word in their conversation to make that assumption.

“Not exactly.”

Another pause. Joan knew the conversation had shifted, felt it, perhaps not in her favor. Taos cleared his throat. “Tell you what, Miss Gallo. I’ll make you a deal...you tell me where he’s holeing up and I won’t send your weasel boyfriend away for the rest of his life.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” She snapped and had to restrain herself from slamming the phone shut and cutting the conversation short. “And even if he was, I don’t have any information to leverage for his life.”

 _Not entirely true._ Joan knew she was somewhere in the Narrows, but she wasn’t willing to just give up that detail to some ambitious cop. Not for nothing. She might be exhausted, but she wasn’t too tired – or too stupid – not to play the game.

A sigh, crackling over the speakers. “How much information would you leverage for your own life?”

Joan smiled despite herself, eyes alighting on a figure moving across the room. The henchman from before, returning with her meal. A clear bag hung from his hand, heavy with what looked like a sizable sandwich, swinging with each step. “Let’s keep in touch, detective” she murmured, snapping the phone closed before he had time to reply and shoving the phone deep into the couch cushion under her.

She glanced up in time to see the man come to a slow stop at the end of the couch. He was still watching her warily, his dirty fingers twisting in the plastic handle of the sandwich bag. “Hope you like tuna,” he mumbled, setting the bag carefully on the cushion between them.

She smiled, all teeth, feeling something bright stirring in the pit of her stomach that wasn’t just hunger. “Tuna’s just fine.”


	11. Chapter 11

She’d finished her meal ( _too quickly_ , she thought, _maybe she should’ve saved some for later_ ) and was passing time at the Joker’s desk cleaning her tools as best she could when the first one came.

“Ma’am?” His head appeared in the doorway, followed by the peaks of his shoulders. He was black, young, skittish. Too young and probably too skittish to be working as a lackey for a dangerous criminal. Too polite too.

“Can I help you?” She replied, her fingers curling reflexively around the small pair of silver scissors in her hands. She wasn’t scared of him necessarily; in fact he looked just about as terrified of her as she was of him. But there was no harm in being careful.

“Boss gave orders that we should come get looked at,” he muttered, the rest of his body still bent out of sight as though he were waiting for her permission to fully emerge from the shadow.

“ _We_?” Her mouth curled around the word like a curse.

He looked over his shoulder, back down the hall. Joan immediately understood. They, _we_ , the rest of the goons, were lined up outside the door. Like children waiting for lice checks with the school nurse.

She let out a sigh that wavered dangerously close to a tired laugh and set the scissors back in their place in her kit. “Let’s get this over with.”

The line wasn’t long. Couldn’t have been more than five or six men. They were young, but old in the face, with yellowed eyes and broken noses, their scars glowing silver and pink in the dim red light of the room. She could tell when she touched them that their bodies had been broken and re-broken and healed poorly, roughly, an afterthought. A few of them were shy under her attention, as if suddenly realizing she was a woman. The others weren’t even there, moving under her hands like robots, like zombies, eyes blank and staring off at some spot at the opposite wall above her head. They didn’t shudder, didn’t hiss or curse when she passed her fingers over their bruises, their stitches. It was almost like touching one of her old “clients” – only thing missing was a good wig and a tub full of hotel ice.

She wasn’t used to having patients, wasn’t used to working on bodies that moved and rippled under her fingertips. She hadn’t spent a lot of time in school working on her bedside manner – surgeons, she believed, didn’t need to. They didn’t need to be warm or sympathetic or _nice_. That’s what nurses were for. But she surprised herself with her own patience, surprised herself with how easily their bodies came back to her, familiar in their pain, in their torn edges. Most of all, she was quietly overwhelmed with how glad she was to see the progress of the work she’d done on them the night before, almost excited to see that her work could bring about more than just pain and death.

_Don’t get too chummy._

His voice in the back of her head, the smell of him lingering in the room, like a fog, kept her from going out of her way with chit chat.

She didn’t understand why he wanted his men to come in for “check-ups”, why he gave a shit at all if they survived the blows they took doing his bidding. She figured it was probably some sick form of manipulation. A method to establish trust, maybe even a play at kindness, the set up for a joke where the punchline would be – death? Further mutilation? Joan didn’t need to expend the mental energy to figure that one out. But if the Joker thought she was so desperate for a friend that she’d try to bond with one of his henchmen, he was dead wrong.

When the last man had come and gone, she put her tools away – except for her scalpel, which was cleaned and slipped back into her pocket - threw away the sullied gauze and used bandages in the wastebasket under the desk, and tried the only other door in the Joker’s room, hoping for a bathroom. Her guess was correct. Small, grimy, but not as bad as it could be, all things considered. No bodies rotting in the bathtub, no sink full of blood.

She choked back a moan of relief as she moved into the room, anxious to rinse her hands and get a look at her face in the mirror above the sink. The light was poor and the glass was dirty, but the face looking back at her surprised her. The bruise around her eye was yellow, nearly gone. The same went for any lingering bruises around her neck. She looked tired, sort of washed out, but she hadn’t been sleeping. Her hair was the worst of it – matted, bent out of shape, flat on her only good side.

But she looked – _fine_. 36 hours kept in an unnamed location by the Joker and no real damage to show for it. She imagined wandering into GCPD headquarters, insisting she was his captive and not his cohort. Tried to figure the odds of _not_ being immediately put in a holding cell. The thought of Detective Taos, smug as a cat, made her insides curdle. She glanced away from the mirror, suddenly aware she was breathing hard.

Instead, she cast a wary eye to the shower situation and the sad, single bar of white soap floating in a small puddle of water near the drain. She knew she reeked – of fear, of panic, of other people’s blood – but she couldn’t stomach the thought of undressing here, of making herself more vulnerable than she already was. Besides – if she stunk maybe the men would keep away from her.

It was a silly thought, one borne out of desperation and exhaustion. She knew, logically, that it didn’t matter; that if they wanted to hold her down and hurt her, humiliate her, kill her, a bit of body odor wouldn’t keep them away. But for now, she would be stubborn. Exert control over whatever she could, until she could find a way out. Out and away.

She swung open the medicine cabinet, if only to keep from looking at herself anymore. Half curious, she poked through the contents. A few half-empty pots of grease paint, an old box of green hair dye, a comb missing half its teeth, a bag of jumbled Bic razors.

“No red rubber nose?” she murmured, dipping her fingers lightly into an open tub of paint and rubbing the mixture between her fingers, surprised at its pleasant coolness.

“That’s funny, Joanie.”

She jerked back suddenly, whipping around to face the man standing silently in the doorway and the movement sent the bag of razors tumbling into the sink with a clatter. A cold shock of nerves pushed the breath from her lungs.

The Joker’s eyebrows rose into his hairline, the wet red gash of his mouth curling into a mean smile. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Didn’t meant to frighten you while you were _snooping_.” He shuffled into the room, hands clasped behind his back, playing at harmlessness.

“I wasn’t snooping,” she muttered and started picking up the razors in the sink, almost immediately realizing that the action made her look like a guilty child.

“Call it what you like,” the Joker replied, checking her shoulder as he moved past her for the toilet. Joan froze as she heard the whine of a zipper and the eventual stream of piss hitting the water in the bowl. She peered over her shoulder as she stuffed the razors back in their bag and into the medicine cabinet to glare at his back. “Seriously?”

He peered right back at her, unabashed. “What? We’re _roomies_ now, Joanie.” He paused to shake off and put himself away with a grunt. “Might as well get comfortable and set all our squeamishness aside, don’t yah think?” He checked her shoulder again on the way out and she had to grip the edge of the sink from hitting him in the back of head. He was feeling halfway playful, she realized, but that could turn on a dime. She wouldn’t spoil his mood and get herself hurt if she could help it. She’d proceed with caution for as long as she could.

She didn’t bother with a final glance at herself as she left the bathroom, turning off the light as she went. “Roomies,” she repeated, her voice flat. 

“Sure,” he murmured, stretching out the word like a purr as he made a small circle around the room, shucking off his coat, his gloves, his vest in turn and tossing them in any given direction. “That way I don’t have to lop off any more pricks in the middle of the night.” He sighed, stopping in front of the mirror on the far side of the room to loosen his tie, tilting his head to give her a mean smile, “Unless you ask me real nice, of course.”

Joan watched him for a moment more, feeling a sudden surge of emotion – fear, rage, hopelessness– kick in the space between her ribs, before she moved further into the room to sit on the metal folding chair.

“Not going to ask me about my day?” He shuffled closer to her, toeing her bare feet with his badly scuffed dress shoes.

She didn’t look at him, choosing instead to stare at the ragged brown knot of his shoelaces. “I don’t need to.”

“Why’s that?” He nudged her foot again slightly.

“Can see the blood all over your shirt.”

He giggled, and then began pressing her smallest toe into the ground with methodical slowness. “We match! Ain’t that sweet.”

She wrenched her foot away with a hiss and looked up at him finally, her exhaustion giving way to a rage so sharp it made her stomach hurt. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so swollen with anger, so sick with it. It made her impulsive. Stupid. “I talked to a detective today.”

He tilted his head. The change in his expression was minute. Blink and you’ll miss it. A shade of something sinister flickering over his features, making his eyes somehow blacker. “You joking me, Joanie?”

“Joking? _Never_.”

He was on her in a second, his hands winding themselves up in her hair, around her throat, hoisting her up and pinning her to the bed like a moth on a corkboard, holding her middle to the bed with his knees. She struggled to breathe,a gasp of shock and horror stuck in the back of her mouth. She struck out, her hands catching his shirt collar, nails tearing at the skin she could reach. Distantly, under the horrible ringing rush of blood in her head, she heard the clack of a button as it loosed itself and flew across the room.

“Gotta say I’m disappointed,” he growled, “Never took you for a _squealer_.” He leaned down close to her so he was practically breathing in her mouth, filling her up with death. “What did they sell you on, Joanie? Hmm? Freedom? Absolution? A ride in the bat mobile?” He laughed at that, his fingers twisting harshly in her hair and she nearly screamed, the pain enough to flood her eyes with hot tears.

“I told you – you’re free to go. Free to go back to your loverboy and your hotel bars, free to go back to playing around with body parts to get your rocks off, as if you weren’t _waiting_ for me to come find you, ” His knees buckled, pinching into her ribs so hard she swore she felt them shift inside her chest. Her hands fell away from his neck, flapping at her sides in search for the knife she suddenly remembered she had.

“Don’t play the victim, Joanie,” he hissed, “ _You started this_.” He adjusted his grip on her throat just so and she took in a gulp air so great it made it her lightheaded. But it was enough.

Her fingers closed around the knife in her pocket and on the exhale, she brought it out and up, slamming it into the meat of his thigh, the one she knew was still hurting from the night before. The sound that erupted out of him was feral, something between a shout and a cackle, and she watched wide-eyed, still desperate for air, as he pulled off her, unwinding his hand from her throat to slide the scalpel out in one smooth stroke.

He considered the little blade for only a second, gave a small grunt as he leaned back ever so slightly, and stabbed it into her leg.

Joan howled, blinded by a kind of pain she had only ever imagined, and everything in the world narrowed down to the searing agony in her leg. The Joker simply stared, the ghost of a smile on his horrible mouth, as she tried to buck him off her. In her flailing, she managed to catch him across the face with her hand, to which he responded by twisting the blade.

At that, the fight went out of her almost instantly. She lay there, panting, trying hard not to faint, holding on long enough to watch him reach back to wrench the knife out of her leg and then swing himself off her with alarming grace.

“No more games for now, Joanie,” he muttered, wiping the blade clean of her blood, his blood, on the front of his shirt before tossing it down next to her. “You’re making a mess of our bed.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm literally blown back on my ass by the reception this story has gotten so far. WOW. thank you everyone who's read it so far and to everyone who left kudos/comments. i'm writing more than I have in months and it's in large part to y'all. pls enjoy more of the Joker being a huge asshole and Joan willfully trying to pretend she has the whole situation under control. <3

Joan stared, incredulous, dizzy with pain, as he puttered across the room pausing to toe-off his shoes before settling into his chair and picking up what looked like a halfway deconstructed remote control. As if the previous episode hadn’t happened. And maybe it hadn’t. He was barely even breathing hard.

When she could be sure she definitely wouldn’t faint and probably wouldn’t vomit, she rolled onto her side and slowly shifted her legs over the edge of the bed, managing unsuccessfully to stifle a whimper as a bolt of something white-hot shot up her right leg. If the Joker heard her, he gave no indication, no expression of joy at her pain. He ignored her completely, black eyes bound to the task at hand.

But she watched him warily all the same as she reached out to grab her tool bag, resting some feet away. She’d had to patch herself up and if she wasn’t quick she would bleed through her sweats and onto the mattress. Steeling herself, she looked down at her leg to take in the damage.

Not so bad. Not as shallow as she would’ve hoped, but at least he hadn’t nicked any major arteries. At least he hadn’t been trying to kill her. Still, her hands were shaking as she readied a needle and thread.

She tried to steady her breathing as she worked, played the same old counting games, starting from ten and winding herself up and down. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so out of control, so sick with _anger_. With rage. She could almost smell it, lingering under the smell of blood, seeping from her skin like sweat. It had an electric odor. Like ozone.

And he was right - _she started it._

She’d only told him about Taos to get on his nerves. Because he’d gotten on hers, because he made her cry, because he _scared_ _her_. Shame pushed a few stray tears into her eyes, blurring her vision for a moment as she tied off the knot in her suture.

If she didn’t want to wind up with any more damaged limbs - or worse - she would have to try and remember she was dealing with a murderous psychopath - not some asshole pulling her pigtails, not some loser mark trying to feel her up in a bar. But the rage and the fear that had been building inside of her for years was rising to the surface like blood under her skin and the Joker was more than happy to press on the bruise. It was his favorite game.

And all the rules she’d spent so long learning, all the practice she’d had at keeping the upper hand, her methods, her planning, her control - it didn’t count for shit now.

But she was stubborn. And nearing desperate.

She knew she wouldn’t be able to ask the Joker anything without arousing suspicion - not after their _tussle_ \- but she preferred his suspicion to that of the GCPD. Anway, it would have to do for now. She grit her teeth at the thought, smoothing a bandage over the wound as gently as she could. When she was finally through, she looked at him.

He was still ignoring her. She was reminded how much more she hated his silence.

“I didn’t actually tell the cops anything.” She offered, and when he didn’t respond, she took that as permission to keep talking. “They think I’m working with you.”

He didn’t stop what he was doing, but he seemed to be considering her words. His leg was tapping impatiently beneath the desk, and she saw there was blood blooming under the fabric of his slacks, visibly wet, tinging the purple into a deep violet. Some of it had started to leak onto the floor, pooling around his shoe in a ghoulish puddle and for a moment, she felt absurdly guilty.

“Those piggies must be desperate for anything they can sniff out. With the commissioner dead and the mayor next.” He said it so casually, with such pronounced nonchalance, that she almost missed the hint of excitement in his voice.

“I thought you were only interested in knocking off mob members.” _And Harvey Dent._

“Naahhh,” he replied, “That stuff’s all small change. Gotta keep your eye on the bigger picture.” At this he turned his head to look at her and tapped the end of the remote control in his hand to his temple.

“What do you gain by knocking off the commissioner? Or the mayor for that matter?”

He screwed his face up into an expression of exaggerated disdain. “Not everything is about the payoff, Joanie!” He turned the rest of himself around, sticking out his feet to drag the chair closer to where she was sat on the mattress. He moved as though one of his legs weren’t badly bleeding - she didn’t like that. “You’re so _serious_ \- when’s the last time you killed anybody for _fun_?”

She sneered down at the mess of blood on the floor. “I don’t kill people.”

“Yeah, you’re a regular saint,” he giggled, “You’re tellin me you didn’t get a rush sticking that little knife into me? Because I _sure_ did.”

The wound on her leg seemed to throb at his words. When she glanced back up at him, his eyes were dark, betraying an unmistakable and violent lust. It was not the first time she’d seen it, but it was the first time she considered what might happen if she responded in turn. As close as they were now it wouldn’t take much to find out.

Instead, she made to stand, pushing up with one hand on the floor and doing her best to ignore the sudden flash of pain in her leg. She turned, hoping to make it to the bathroom without further incident but he reached out, gripping her wrist and pulling her abruptly back.

“No, I don’t think so,” he murmured, “What’s with the third degree here, hmm?” He pulled her closer as she tried to wrench away from him, squinting at her as he pushed further into her space. “So _concerned_ , all of a sudden. It doesn’t suit you.”

“I _am_ concerned,” she replied, twisting her arm in his grasp. The skin under his fingers was starting to burn from the friction.

He barked out a laugh at that. It sounded almost genuine. “You know what you are, Joanie? You’re a _leech_. And somehow you got it in that pretty little head that you’re a good person, because you’ve got this code, these _rules_. But you’re not.”

She stopped trying to struggle away, shocked into stillness. They stared at one another and she realized that whatever he had been looking for all those times he seemed to dissect her with his eyes, that little piece of tender gristle he could tear into - _he had found it_ and now he was holding it up for her to see. She decided distantly that she hated him for it.

“The only good thing you ever did, got you where you are now. Right here with me.” Suddenly, he tugged her forward to bring her hand to his leg. She gasped, her stomach turning over as she felt the unholy heat of his blood. The Joker smiled and pressed harder and she watched as her fingers slipped through the torn, sodden fabric of his slacks until she could feel the skin underneath. She jolted back as if she’d been burned and he held her tighter, the growl in his throat leveling out into a low purr of satisfaction.

“You regret it yet, Joanie?”

She could barely hear him over the ringing in her ears, eyes caught on the sight of blood spilling out over her hand, over _their_ hands joined together. “What?”

“Saving my life.”

She glanced up at his face, dazed, disgusted. She told him the truth. “No.”

At that, he loosened the grip on her hand, his eyes skittering across her face, as if he couldn’t believe the answer she’d given him. She could hardly believe it herself.

His response hung in the air like a cruel specter. _Not yet._

Slowly, she slid her hand out from under his and took a single, shaky step away. They watched one another for a moment, wary animals trying to anticipate the next strike, before she slunk away for the bathroom, too shaken to say or do anything else.

She could still feel his eyes on the back of her neck when she closed the door behind her.

†

That night she slept in his bed, her exhaustion winning out over her common sense. She had survived a stab wound and more than a few hits to her pride - she figured she’d earned some comfort.

The Joker didn’t join her. In fact, he seemed to ignore her, stayed busy with his own bullshit, as though he'd gotten his fill of her for the day. A small mercy.

All the same, she dozed fitfully, jolting awake every few hours, her eyes flashing open to find the Joker in some new spot in the room as if he were blinking in and out existence. At the desk, standing in the doorway to the bathroom, drowning her in his sprawling shadow.

Once, she woke to find him in front of the mirror on the far side of the room, unrecognizable in a navy suit, the buttons of his coat glowing in the fading darkness like the eyes of an animal. But it must have been a dream because when she got up for good an hour or so later, disoriented and aching with hunger, he was gone. She took advantage of his absence and managed a quick shower, her first in days.

She still felt numb from their earlier exchange, undecided about how she felt, how she was supposed to feel. She didn’t want to think about the things he said (all that shit about saving his life - _where had that come from?_ ). Instead, as the water washed away the muck of the last two days, she chose to focus on what came before - what little information he had shared about Dent and the mayor. That seemed important. Valuable. Taos’ words were still ringing in her head. _Leverage_.

Finally clean and in a pair of fresh clothes, she wandered out into the hallway, headed to the main room of the warehouse. She felt almost okay, despite her newfound limp, a strange, warm relief in her belly at the Joker’s absence. She was even hopeful that she might be able to send one of his men on another sandwich run.

But any satisfaction she was feeling was promptly dismissed when she stepped out of the hallway and into the warehouse to find she was completely alone.

Not a henchman in sight. The TV off. Only the generator groaning faithfully in the corner. The air smelt like rubbing alcohol, as if the tables had been haphazardly wiped down, smeared with chemicals in the hurry to clear out quick.

For a moment, she felt a wild sense of betrayal, laughing quietly at herself as the emotion swelled inside her and burst, turning her stomach oily with dread.

Her eyes swept over the room, eventually coming to rest on one of the only tables still standing. Someone had found the cellphone she stashed inside the couch, had propped it open and set it down with care. The little screen was glowing and as she moved closer, feet moving numbly across the floor, she realized she was on a call. The call duration was 30 minutes and counting.

“Hello?”

Her mind spun momentarily through visions of bombs, detonators, remote controls - before a calm, familiar voice came on the other end of the line.

“Ms. Gallo.”

She swallowed. “Detective.”

“It’s good to hear your voice.” Despite his bravado, Taos sounded rough, as though his throat were clogged with something wet. “You remember our deal?”

Silence. “Yeah.”

“Well, the terms have changed.” He sniffed and she realized, suddenly, that he sounded as if he had been _crying_. “We’ll talk about it at the station, I’m sure.”

All of the air went out of her at once. “At the station?” She repeated dumbly.

A beat. “Do you know where he is, Joan?”

She flinched at the sound of her own name, as though he had slapped her. “Do you know where _I_ am?”

“We managed to track your location about ten minutes ago, not long after the call came in. You can hang up now - but if you want my opinion, I don’t think you’d get very far.”

She took one slow breath, reached out, and ended the call. She took another as she picked up the phone and neatly cracked it in half, grateful at least that Taos wouldn’t get to hear her scream.


	13. Chapter 13

The police were less gentle with her this time around and, really, she almost didn’t blame them.

Her situation didn’t look good. Two days ago, she had strutted out of the MCU as victorious as she could manage with half of her face bruised. She still had some of the ink from processing under her fingernails.

Three years she’d been drugging tourists and crummy business stiffs, selling their organs for cash and she hadn’t had a single incident with the police. A week or so with the Joker and now, they had her goddamn fingerprints.

For all her disoriented fury, she wasn’t too proud to admit when she had been outplayed and the Joker had set up the perfect punchline just for her. Even though it appeared she was the last one in on the joke: he’d left her in his hideout for the cops to find. Used her own little weapon against her. If she was still hoping to convince the cops they weren’t in cahoots, her chances were slim.

_Ha. Ha_

Once she was through with processing - it seemed to take longer the second time around somehow - she expected Taos to park her in an interrogation room, crank up the cold, and watch her squirm. Instead, he avoided her. She watched him through the bars of her holding cell, where she was afforded a 360 view of the room, as he moved from desk to desk, murmuring with those he passed, shaking hands as he went. Despite a flurry of congratulations here and there, the mood was decidedly somber. He wouldn’t look at her but when she caught a passing glimpse of his face as he moved across the room to receive another pat on the back, she saw his eyes were red. He wasn’t the only one.

Something bad had happened. She didn’t know what - not yet - but she figured she wouldn’t have to wait long to find out. And she was right.

With no access to a window or a clock, it was hard to tell what time it was. Probably evening, if the smell of take out wafting out of the nearby break room was anything to go by. Dinner time. She was sitting on the lone bench with her back against the bars, wondering how pitiful it would be to ask for a few scraps of sour lo mein, when Taos swam suddenly into view.

“Approach the gate.” 

It was the first thing he’d said to her since their chat on the phone. He still wasn’t looking at her, and it was almost starting to piss her off. But she did as he asked, moving slowly, like a sullen child.

“Turn around and put your hands through.” He motioned to the designated gap in the bars as he wrestled a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket. She stared at them, flashing in his hands like a mirror, and threw a glance around the room. They were alone. The realization made her strangely uneasy.

Taos seemed to sense her hesitation and he banged once on the bars with the edge of the cuffs to get her attention. “Put your hands through.”

The thought of him coming into the cell and putting them on himself made her turn around and slide her arms through the opening.

When she was properly secured, he unlocked the door to her cell and led her out of the room. He moved faster than she liked, but she kept quiet. At least until she saw where he was taking her: down a series of narrow hallways, moving further away from the interrogation rooms, from the noise and the crowd of central booking. Away from everyone else.

“Where are we going?” She hated how afraid she sounded.

He didn’t answer, pausing only to push through an emergency exit that dumped them out into a back alley.

“I said where are we going!” She tried again, her voice suddenly too loud in the quiet pocket of air behind the building. When he still did not respond, she stopped, gritting her teeth against the inevitable strain on her arm and the pain that shot up her leg as she planted her feet. She expected him to get angry, to yell at her, hit her maybe. Figured he’d been winding up for a good punch all day. Instead, when he _finally_ turned around, he was calm. Eerily so.

“We’re going to your apartment, Ms. Gallo.”

She blinked. “ _What_?”

He took advantage of her confusion to keep moving until eventually, they came to an unmarked cop car parked near the mouth of the alley, facing out into the street. To her surprise, he opened the side passenger door and ushered her in. She only had a moment to herself in the car to gather her thoughts before he was beside her, starting the engine.

“I’m assuming this has something to do with our deal,” she said.

“Smart cookie.”

She rolled her eyes, adjusting herself minutely so she wasn’t totally sitting on her hands, which were already losing circulation in their cuffs. “I’m also assuming you don’t need directions to my apartment.”

“No, I don’t.”

They rode in silence for a while, both of them squinting into the sunset as they drove west into her part of town. The cabin smelled like cinnamon, the sharp sweetness of it turning her stomach. She peered at Taos, eyeing the dense bulge of gum packed into his cheek. She wondered how badly he wanted a cigarette.

“So did he kill the mayor?”

He frowned. The question seemed to take him off guard, poking a small hole in his cool exterior. “No, but not for lack of trying.” He was quiet for a moment. “He killed Jim Gordon.”

He kept his eyes on the road, but she could tell they had started to shine with fresh tears. She didn’t know who Jim Gordon was, but she quickly glanced away to the window and quietly considered whether or not leaping from the car at this speed would kill her. It was then she noticed the two patrol cars following closely behind them, looming like matching black clouds in the rearview mirror. Backup.

When Taos spoke again, he seemed to have his emotions under control. She was silently thankful. “The Joker took something important from the GCPD, so we’re returning the favor. And when he comes to collect, we’ll nab the son of a bitch.”

The laugh was out of her mouth before she had a chance to stop it. “You think I’m _important_ to the Joker? You’re serious?”

He didn’t respond, instead cracking the window to spit out his gum. She angled her body to face him, desperate to communicate how absolutely _wrong_ he was. “The Joker left me behind in that shithole like a piece of garbage. If I were important to him, wouldn’t he have taken me along? Wherever the fuck he went?”

“You’d know better than me.”

“No - I wouldn’t!” she cried, “We’re not friends, we’re not partners! He thinks I’m working with you people!”

She cursed as Taos took a turn a little too hard, sending her crashing against the door. Her leg was really starting to hurt. From all the moving and hustling around, she wouldn’t be surprised if she popped a stitch.

“Detective, please,” she murmured, trying for calm despite the mounting panic in her chest, “Using me as bait is a horrible idea. If you try and play his game, you’ll lose.”

He looked at her then and she saw whatever crack she had made in his resolve had mended itself. “Was it just me or did that sound like a threat?”

The blinker clicked on in the heavy silence as he sailed left onto a familiar street. She had run out of time to convince him otherwise - she was home.

†

She had been right about the patrol cars. They were backup. Two officers stayed parked outside, while the other two lumbered after her and Taos as they ascended the short set of stairs to her place. Made themselves right at home, opening every cabinet, drawer, and closet, tossing her things like they were looking for evidence as they moved from room to room.

She half expected the cat to put up a fight at the unexpected guests, but he was nowhere to be found. She stared at a single puffy piece of kibble floating in his water bowl as Taos undid one of her cuffs and chained her unceremoniously to the leg of her heavy glass coffee table.

Joan resigned herself to the couch, too tired and too fucking _hungry_ to be upset that she was now a prisoner in her own house and ignored the officers’ blatant stares as they wandered back into the living room, their search unsuccessful. No dead bodies in the bathtub, no heads in the freezer. How disappointing.

She had the distinct sense that they were waiting for something to happen. Waiting for _her_ to do something maybe. If they were as convinced as Taos of her guilt, she was sure they were expecting the worst.

As cops went, they seemed dumb. Bloated and pissy from too much desk work. If Taos really expected to take down the Joker with these winners then he was an idiot and she figured he deserved whatever colossal fuck-up this spiraled into. But for now, they were all going to wait.

Night descended gracelessly. At some point someone put on a pot of coffee. The officers went out for a snack, came back with something she could eat one-handed and the sudden spike in blood sugar made her drowsy. She was already sunk so low in her seat on the couch to accommodate the growing sensation of pins and needles in her captive arm that she decided - spitefully - to stretch out. She was asleep before she could consider that it might be gauche to nap at a stakeout.

A firm shake roused her sometime later. She half-expected to open her eyes and be greeted by the sight of a clown mask - but, no. It was just Taos, looking tired and irritated. “Wake up, Ms. Gallo.”

She blinked up at him, squinting in the dark. “Has the party started?”

His lip curled in disgust. “I’ve been called away. There’s been an emergency downtown. Dent got waylaid on his way to County.” He stared down at her for a second, as though waiting for her to concede to a master plan. Instead, clueless as ever, she wiped a bit of drool from the corner of her mouth with her free hand.

That only seemed to frustrate him further. It must have been clear by now the Joker wasn’t going to fall for his trap. He was most likely responsible for whatever mayhem was happening halfway across the city and Joan was grateful that she seemed to be the last thing on his mind. Still - the blow to Taos’ ego was obvious, written all over his face.

“I’m leaving you in the custody of my backup,” he said, fishing distractedly in his front shirt pocket for something, “I’m sure you understand that it’s in your best interest to behave while I am gone.” He produced the key to her handcuffs and she watched as he placed it just out of reach on the side table nearby. “If I return and you’re not right where I left you, if I find anything has happened to my men…” He leaned down to whisper the rest to her. “I can’t guarantee you’ll be alive to face prison time."

Even through the receding veil of sleep, the threat resonated, dread hitting her stomach like a stone. She hadn’t expected that from him. He was ambitious, sure, grossly overconfident. But he had never struck her as capable of murder. So succintly corrupt.

She was silent as he moved on, leaving the stink of cinnamon and stale sweat in his wake. He exchanged a word or two to the cops loitering at their stations by the window, and then he was gone. A flashing pattern of blue and red lights sprang up through the window as he and the rest of his backup peeled away, their sirens joining the howling chorus across town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol ACAB amirite?


	14. Chapter 14

Things got quiet again, and Joan debated going back to sleep. Maybe when she’d had some more rest she could figure out how to get herself out of this mess. But a viable solution presented itself rather quickly as she sat upright. She swallowed thickly, preparing herself for what would likely be the most humiliating conversation of her life.

“Hey.” She called out to the men on the far side of the room. “Can you uncuff me? I need to pee.”

They didn’t respond, opting to ignore her entirely, and she felt ready to scream. Instead, she leaned forward and rattled the chain hanging from around the leg of the coffee table, sure to make as much irritating noise as possible.

“I said, I need to pee. Please?”

One of them glanced away from the window to look at her. “Taos gave explicit orders not to undo those cuffs for any reason. So get cozy, sweetheart.” He turned away, elbowing his partner as he chuckled under his breath.

“Well, then I hope you’re okay cleaning up piss because in about fifteen minutes I’m going to soak this fucking couch.” She knew she sounded like a two-year-old. But it apparently had some effect, because after a moment of thoughtful silence, one of the men kissed his teeth in annoyance and shuffled over to retrieve the key and unlock her.

“Thank you,” she muttered, rubbing at her wrist as she got to her feet, moving extra slow to show she meant no harm. In response, the officer unlatched his gun holster. She got the message and disappeared down the hallway and into the bathroom.

The place was a wreck, her things strewn about by two teams of careless strangers: first, the Joker’s men and then Taos’. She was staring lamely at the mess on the floor as she relieved herself, eyes trailing the tangle of some unwound gauze like a horrible worm, when inspiration struck. When she was through, she let the water in the sink run as she rummaged in the very back of her medicine cabinet. Her hand emerged with a small clear bottle of brown liquid.

It was a drug she’d bought in her early days, when she was still too poor to afford anything other than nasty street shit. But it would do nicely now, if she could manage it.

She peered out into the hallway, leaning just far enough to catch a glimpse of her guards. They were still standing by the window, chatting idly. One of them, she noticed, the one who was ready to let her piss her pants, had found the pack of cigarettes she kept stashed and had decided to help himself.

 _Cute_.

As silently and as quickly she could manage with a bad leg, she moved into the kitchen, her eyes on the pot of drip coffee on the counter, the bottle of sedative clutched in her palm. She had emptied about half of it into the pot and was giving the coffee a perfunctory stir when her guards seemed to remember they were supposed to be watching her.

“Hey!”

Hearing footsteps behind her, Joan slipped the bottle into her shirt sleeve with all the grace she had almost forgotten she had and turned around to face the officer headed her way.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, raising her hands in defense, “I just wanted to check on the coffee. See if it needed refreshing.”

The cop watched her warily, hand on his gun. His partner looked on in the background, puffing lazily on his cigarette, but his hand was also on his hip.

She did the only thing she knew that would disarm them completely: she _smiled_ at them. The “100-watt” smile - that’s what Mason would call it, the one that had fooled so many men with its slow, sweet imitation of surrender. The expression felt strange on her face, after so many days of wearing a snarl, of fighting back a scream - but it worked like a charm. The cop let her pass, watched her dumbly as she glided past him to perch on the couch.

Making sure to keep the little bottle in her shirt sleeve, held in place at her wrist, she cinched the free end of the handcuff back on. She turned her smile on the other cop by the window as she did it, as if to say _See? I’m being helpful. You can trust me_.

He didn’t flinch, inhaling meanly around his cigarette. His friend was still loitering in the kitchen, suddenly reminded that there was coffee. He returned with two fresh cups. None for her. Joan stretched back out on the couch and waited.

There wasn’t much of a fight after that. The drugs worked just as quickly as they were supposed to. The cops would be delirious when they woke up and probably sick for days after, but she’d never stuck around to watch her victims wake up and she wouldn’t start now. The cuffs came off quickly thanks to the little bottle blocking the metal from her wrist. Finally free, she checked on the guards. One of them had hit his head pretty hard on the window sill on the way down. No blood, and they were both still breathing. Good enough for her.

She figured she had a good six or seven hours to herself. Maybe less. She knew - even if she didn’t know how, didn’t dare speak it aloud - that the Joker would come for her eventually, but she wasn’t content to give him the thrill of the chase. Instead, she would savor the time she had with herself.

 _First things first_ , she thought, _a drink_.

†

The bottle of whiskey was right where she’d left it, wedged between the mattress and the boxspring like a dirty magazine. It was a nice brand, the bottle half full. She thought she could remember drinking some with Sasha the last time she saw him.

She was glad not to have found him rotting on the bedroom floor or stuffed rudely in her closet under a pile of old clothes. That meant he was still alive and keeping his distance for the first time since they’d met each other. Her chest tightened at the thought and she chased the feeling with a sturdy gulp of whiskey. Took another before she was ready to check the stitches in her leg.

They were fine, pink and itching fiercely, but fine. She cleaned up with what supplies hadn’t been thrown onto the bathroom floor, happy at least to see that the cut was healing nicely. Her time with the Joker had taught her more about tending to patients and wounds than med school ever had, she mused. She smothered the thought while she padded back into the living room for her cigarettes.

Hours passed, the swing of the bottle keeping time like a pendulum. By midnight, she was properly drunk for the first time in months. Her face felt warm against the pleasant coolness pillows, still a little damp from earlier when she’d washed her hair in the sink. She hadn’t been able to wash it properly while in captivity and the ritual felt nice. Almost normal.

Wallowing in the bottom of her bottle, she could admit it was all a ruse, her fading illusion of control, _of something like hope_ , that she’d been clutching onto. At least, until the Joker had left her for the cops, and until Taos had left her for the Joker. There was truly nobody coming to save her. That’s what the Joker had said. She was starting to believe that no one _could_ save her. So she drank and the drunker she got, the more she had to remind herself where she was, who she was waiting for.

Eventually, he arrived, white face appearing in the dark, something out of a nightmare.

“Joaniieeee...you asleep?” His voice drifted across the room like a lullaby to where she lay curled on the bed. “Nah, you’re not sleepin. I could smell you from the front door.”

He moved around to her side of the bed and sat down. She felt his fingers stroll up her side, walking past the bandage on her leg with surprising care, until they reached the destination, curling around the neck of the bottle she was cradling in her arms. She grunted in protest as he pulled it away, setting it on the floor and scooting closer.

“What’re you poutin about? I didn’t hurt your feelings too bad did I, hmm?”

He loomed over her and she blinked hard, trying to get her vision to stop swimming. Her stomach clenched as she took him in. The gash on his forehead. The dirt on his clothes. His makeup was smeared with sweat and soot.

“You couldn’t...hurt my feelings - if you tried.” It sounded a lot less tough than she hoped, the words jumbled and slow.

“Maybe I should try harder.”

She didn’t respond, staring down at the bottle on the floor and silently hating him for taking away her fun.

“I saw the cops knocked out in the living room. And the handcuffs…” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Up to your old tricks, huh? What did you give em?”

She sat up unsteadily, suddenly aware of his closeness and the strong smell of car exhaust rolling off him in waves. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. Drunk, she couldn’t come up with a reason not to tell him the truth. “GHB.”

“Naughty.”

He was still giggling and she forgot herself for a moment and joined him. It must have been the whiskey, filling her up with a sudden misplaced giddiness. It felt _good_ to finally be in on the joke.

She made to grab at the whiskey where it sat on the floor, but the Joker stopped her with a hand on her chest pushing her back none too gently and kicking the bottle under the bed in the same motion. Something close to a whimper bubbled up in the back of her throat.

“No more of that, honeybunch,” he tittered, “Now, look - I know you’re mad that I ditched yah, but _really_ it was nothing personal. You told me you were talking to the cops - I did what any sane person would do and I scrammed. You understand - right, Joanie?”

She looked at him, only vaguely aware of what he was saying. He hadn’t moved his hand and it was burning a hole in her chest. She wondered if he could feel her heart beating.

“I mean, really - _you_ should be apologizing to _me_. You really put me in a bit of a bind tonight. Speaking of which - I meant to ask yah - you ever put a bomb in someone before? Not as easy as you think...anyway.” He paused with a wave of his hand, heaving a sigh of great exhaustion, “What I mean to say is that I hope we can still be friends.” He drew closer then, his hand sliding up from her chest to cradle the side of her face.

The gesture was so intimate, so suddenly and surprisingly kind, she wanted to cry. So she opened her mouth as wide as she could manage and bit him. He was dressed down, without his gloves, and when she felt his skin give beneath her teeth, her blood sang. His fingers tasted like copper and asphalt and gasoline, but she didn’t care. The Joker snarled, reaching forward to wrap his other hand around her throat. He was on top of her now, his weight pinning her to the bed. Her head spun with the sudden lack of oxygen and she realized distantly that with whatever air she had left, she was laughing.

Eventually, he managed to wrestle his hand away. His blood looked black in the low light of the bedroom. She smiled through the thickening red in her mouth.

“Looks like I am a leech after all.”

He stared down at her, chest heaving, his face unreadable in the dark. She braced herself for a slap, his hands around her neck. Instead, he leaned down, slowly as if she might bite him again, and began licking away the blood, _his_ blood, from her mouth.

Joan froze.

She knew that it would eventually come to this. Distantly, in the part of her brain that wasn’t soaked in bourbon, she recognized that she had _always_ known, from the first time she’d found him in her apartment. That he had been waiting to play _this_ card, the one that was meant to humiliate her, subjugate her, push her further into unknown waters.

He had her vulnerable. Wasted. Exhausted. Newly abandoned by the man - _this_ man - who had ruined her life, who had seemingly appeared out of thin air with appetite enough to eat her life simply because he could. And now his tongue was in her mouth, teasing the meat of her lips as though he were asking to be let in, as though he needed invitation.

 _Why not?_ She thought. _He took everything - why not let him have a little more_?

Before she could make up her mind, he was through. Smacking his lips thoughtfully, he hovered over her, the barest hint of a smirk on his face. “Next time you want something to chew on, Joanie, just ask - I’m a generous guy.” He slipped off her and leapt to his feet, clapping his hands together as though he was clearing them of dust. “But maybe later, huh? We’ve got to make moves.”

Joan blinked up at her bedroom ceiling. Her lips were still wet with his saliva. She licked it away when he wasn’t looking.

“I’ll give you some time to get yourself together,” he muttered, strutting back toward the door. “And give me a shout if you need help sobering up.” He wiggled the first two fingers on his hand that wasn’t bleeding and mimed as if to put them down his throat before sauntering out of the room.

She lay there for a minute, willed her heart to stop hammering, considered simply rolling over and refusing to go with him.

_Would he drag her out of the apartment? Or would he take that as the invitation he was after?_

“Shit.” She moved as quickly as she could manage, opting for the bathroom. She let the sink run to cover the sound of her vomiting and washed her face after. Made sure she wasn’t too obviously puffy. When she was through and she was sober enough again to realize what a bad idea drinking had been, she went back to the bedroom.

The gun, just like the whiskey, was right where she had left it, in the lockbox on top of her personal safe. She made sure the safety was on as she tucked it neatly into the back of her jeans and followed after where the Joker had disappeared in the dark.


	15. Chapter 15

It was early morning by the time they arrived at the docks, the dawn blue and uneasy as it settled over the water.

Joan had never spent much time at the docks, despite the city’s attempts to liven up the otherwise run down area with a few trendy bars. Hot spots for idiot tourists. She didn’t care for them. The water always looked black, the smell all wrong. Rancid. Not like the brisk salt of the beaches she remembered from Sawyer. Now, as she climbed out of the Joker’s commandeered cop car, it just made her nauseous. He had parked the car in the shadow of a massive tanker and left her staring dumbly at the imposing rusting figure of its rudder as he wrestled their extra passenger from the back of the car.

It had been a few minutes into the drive before Joan realized with some degree of panic that she and the Joker were not alone. There was a stranger slumped over in the backseat, badly beaten but alive, and gagged with his own butter-yellow tie. The Joker hadn’t bothered with an introduction, merely shrugging when she looked at him for some kind of explanation.

Whoever he was, he was fucked. That much was clear.

Once the Joker had him awake enough to walk, he was dragging him off the dock and up the gangplank that led through to the inside of the ship. She followed, her head still reeling from the whiskey and the putrid stink of the water as it churned under her feet.

The inside of the tanker wasn’t much better, but she was greeted by a familiar sight- ten or so goons, with and without masks, milling about in the wide belly of the ship around what appeared to be a colossal column of money. _That_ part was less familiar. More awe-inspiring.

She had to tilt her head back to take it all in. Pausing before the enormous pile, she watched the Joker’s men as they moved to-and-fro to add more stacks here and there. Despite herself, the smell of it made her mouth water.

“You’re drooling, Joanie.”

At some point, the Joker had shuffled over to her, relieved of his captive. She hoped she would never get used to him sneaking up on her. Or reading her mind. She peered at him as he turned away, motioning for her as he stalked off to some corner of the room. Again, she followed, throwing one last glance at the growing tower of green behind them.

The Joker led her into something like a cabin, outfitted with a bunk bed and a desk nailed to the floor. It was small and ugly and strangely commercial, all beige plaster and yellow linoleum. The round window above the desk offered a bleak view of the sunrise.

“Don’t gimme that look,” he muttered when he caught her scowling at the bunk bed, “It’s not permanent.”

She didn’t reply, moving past him into the half bath attached to the cabin and helping herself to a few gulps of water from the faucet. It tasted like metal but she forced it down anyway.

“You’re awful quiet.” She could hear the Joker moving around the cabin outside. A whisper of silk. The almost cheerful clacking of his suspender clips. She realized after a moment he was getting undressed. “You’re not still mad at me, are yah?”

She took another long drink of water, pleased to find her headache was already starting to recede, before she returned to the cabin. The Joker was perched on the lower bunk of the bed, face wiped clean, dressed down in his slacks and a sullied white undershirt that was spotted with blood. In the creeping light of the morning, she could suddenly see the damage. The bruises, the large swatches of broken skin on his arms, the red matted mess of blood and glass on the back of his head. His chest was the worst, black and already swollen.

“You look like shit.”

He wheezed out a laugh that sounded like it hurt. “Gee, thanks.”

She drew closer, gaping down at him as she ghosted her fingers down the raw flesh of his shoulders. Closer up, it looked like road rash. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“ _Batman_.” He was smiling as he said it, the pride obvious in the turn of his mouth.

She grimaced at a particularly bad patch of bloody skin. “I don’t have any of my tools. Don’t know what you’ve got lying around this place, but I don’t think I can be much help.”

“That’s _sweet_ of you, Joanie.”

“It’s not sweet - it’s what I’m here for. Isn’t it?”

His eyes narrowed as her hand traveled up along his shoulder to the back of his neck. It came away wet with blood. She tried not to look directly at him, disturbed as she always was by his staring. She could almost see his mind working, prying, looking for soft skin to sink into.

“That’s a _gooood_ question, Joanie,” he mused aloud, chewing almost thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek, “I’m having a little trouble myself understanding just why you’re here. I mean…” He stood suddenly and she had to take a few steps back to get out of his way as he paced to the far side of the room. “Those cops were out cold and I was busy with the bat….if I were you, I'd be halfway down the coast by now.” He turned to her, poised in front of the window, his face obscured against the fading light. “But you’re not.”

She frowned, half-aware that she was idly wiping her bloody hands on the back of her pants. “You told me before you’d find me if I ran. And I didn’t feel like running.”

“You just didn’t _feel_ like it?” She couldn’t quite see his face but she could hear the smile in his voice, could tell he was leering at her. _Laughing at her._ “You know what your problem is, Joanie?” he murmured, shaking his head as he shuffled closer.

Rage prickled at the back of her skull. “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

He huffed, an almost playful sound, but he was close enough now that she couldn’t miss the danger glinting in his eyes, close enough that when he lunged at her she didn’t have time to duck him. His hand was around her throat, her back suddenly pressed against the unforgiving metal structure of the bed. Under her exhaustion, she felt a profound sense of deja vu.

“Yeah, that’s right, I’m gonna tell yah,” he growled, “You're not just a leech, Joanie, you’re a _schemer_ too. Just like the cops and the mob. You think that you’re in control so long as everything goes according to plan. I told you to stay - and _that’s_ why you stayed. You do as I say, you go along with the plan, because you think it will save you.”

She glared at him, reaching up to push him away and making sure to press directly on the worst bit of bruising along his chest. “It’s worked out so far.”

He cackled, actually throwing his head back to laugh at her. “Worked out, huh? That’s a good one!” He was still giggling as he pulled her even closer and she blanched as felt his hand snake up the back of her shirt to settle on the handle of her gun. “Just for that I think I might let you keep your new toy. If you can behave.”

He moved as if to slide the gun from her waistband and her arm flew back in a blind panic, hand closing around his. They watched each other for a moment and she realized that if he knew how much she was counting on keeping the gun he would take it from her out of spite. She’d been stupid to think he wouldn’t notice she had it in the first place. Without a plan, without another hope of rescue, her survival hung on simply getting him to forget she even had it.

An idea bubbled up from the back of her brain and she latched onto it without another thought. He had her properly pinned against the bed, but she had just enough leverage. Enough to lean forward and kiss him.

It was a chaste thing. She could just taste the lingering bit of lipstick on his mouth, found she didn’t mind all that much. There was a brief moment of stillness, and she made sure to keep her eyes open long enough to watch the shock as it washed over his face, to savor the victory swelling in her stomach. His mouth moved under hers and she thought he was going to kiss her back. Instead, he opened wide and sunk his teeth into her bottom lip with enough force to draw blood.

She gasped, rearing back and immediately whacking her head on the top bunk. Pain bloomed bright and hot across the dome of her skull, a momentary distraction from the throbbing in her lip.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she groaned, distantly aware that the Joker no longer had his hand on the gun, too busy wiping his mouth. A small mercy.

“Nice trick, Joanie,” he murmured, mouth slick with the barest hint of red, “But I can bite too.”

She felt his hand slacken just a bit around her neck so she slid back slightly, folding in on herself to sink down onto the cot on the lower bunk. He let her go, satisfied that he’d driven the fight right out of her. Eyes closed, she waited for the room to stop spinning.

“Why don’t you sleep it off, champ? You look a little worse for wear.”

She cracked one eye at him, found him crouched to her level so he could look at her, his face curled up in an expression of exaggerated concern. She half expected him to keep taunting her, maybe haul her back to her feet for another round.

She gave a small nod, the most she could move her head without triggering another bout of vertigo. It was all the answer he needed. He rocked back on his heels and straightened up with a groan, before strolling towards the door and out of the cabin, making sure to slam the door on the way out. The sound of it echoed in the silence.

Suddenly, blessedly alone, she spent a few moments trying to catch her breath before stashing the gun under her cot and stretching out on the thin, foul-smelling mattress as gently as she could manage. If the Joker was going to let her tap out, she was going to take it. Best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Nevermind the teeth. She was edging beyond exhaustion, strung out from a night of waiting and drinking and useless ruminating, but her mind was racing, tripping back over what she’d just done like a broken record.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done something so impulsive, so recklessly stupid - and had it pay off. Mostly. Despite the pain in her head and the keen sting of her lip, she still felt triumphant. For a moment, no matter how brief, she had been back in control. She had outplayed him, caught him off guard. The surprise she had seen on his face had felt twice as sweet as making him bleed.

She wasn’t foolish enough to believe that it would last, knew the game or whatever the fuck this was, was far from won. She realized how lucky she was to come away with nothing but a bite and some blood in her mouth. But the gun was still hers and for now, she would try and sleep, something like pride simmering quietly inside her.

†

When she awoke a while later, it was dark and she struggled to place where she was. The last few days had been tough on her, a rude interruption for a mind that thrived on schedule and routine. But then she remembered. Felt the sway of the ship under her, smelt the foul salt of the air and the gasoline fumes - and she came back to herself, curled up in a patch of purple shadows in the dimly lit cabin.

She wasn’t alone. Found she rarely was these days. The Joker sat across the room, facing her in the desk chair. His hands were busy with something and he was muttering to himself as he worked in the poor light provided by a nearby ancient looking hand lamp. It took her a minute to figure out what he was holding. The realization sent her flying upright and she narrowly avoided smacking her head a second time as she swung her legs out from the bunk.

He had her gun. And he was cleaning it. She watched him, momentarily distracted from her mounting panic by the skill and efficiency with which he worked. He had his tools laid out on the floor, a few slender metal trinkets, a dirty rag, and a little tube that looked like super glue. There was something almost militarized in his movements. She thought back, briefly, to all those days she’d spent “training” with the gun in her apartment and felt foolish. As though he could hear the uneasy noise in her head, he paused and set the gun on the ledge of his thigh.

“This thing is filthy,” he muttered and rubbed once, hard, at the end of his nose, “Didn’t your mother ever teach you how to clean your piece?”

The question was so absurd she almost laughed. Instead, she got unsteadily to her feet, taking silent inventory. Her body was sore from having slept so tightly coiled for so long and there was definitely a knot on the back of her head, but her mouth had stopped bleeding so she supposed she was alright. It was only when she stood up that she spotted the fast food bags on the desk. The smell of grease - and her hunger - hit her all at once. She was across the room, tearing into a soiled yellow bag and unwrapping a cheeseburger before she could stop herself.

Beside her, the Joker chuckled. “Sure, help yourself, Joanie.”

She did just that, dryly swallowing a few mouthfuls of meat and bread before glancing sideways at him. He looked tired, more run-down, more _human_ , than she’d ever seen him. She noted that the bruises along his chest and arms had gotten worse. He had never told her precisely what had happened to him, but she figured he had probably not been meant to survive it.

“You really ought to get properly looked at” she murmured, between chews, making sure to eat around the bit of bun that had gotten soggy and cold.

He scoffed, stooping to pick up what looked like a long metal pipe cleaner from the floor before shoving it fiercely into the barrel of the gun. “Isn’t that what _you’re_ here for?”

She rolled her eyes. “I mean, by a _real_ doctor. Those bruises look bad.”

“That your professional opinion, doc?”

It was quiet for a beat. It felt silly to nag him, so she finished off her burger instead, even pecked at a few fries that didn’t taste too strongly of wet cardboard. He went back to his furious scrubbing.

“You gonna give that back to me when you’re done?” She knew it was a halfway stupid question. Felt like it was setting her up for a metaphorical kick in the ribs. But she had to ask, had to know if she would have to fight him for it after all.

“I don’t know, Joanie. You gonna behave?”

“How about I earn it back?”

That got his attention. He turned slightly in his seat to look up at her, his face splitting in a salacious grin. “Up for round two already?”

The words plucked at something in her stomach, ringing with a familiar feeling. A memory maybe, already clouded over with grime. _Like something Sasha would say._ Her stomach rolled over at the thought, her appetite gone at once. She decided to change the subject.

“Let me wash the glass out of your hair. Get the blood out at least.”

The offer sounded silly, almost sentimental as it hung in the silence between them. She was ready to take it back when the Joker suddenly got to his feet, bumping the desk chair back with a screech. He stepped nimbly over his scattered tools toward her and she nervously watched the gun in his hand, relaxing only when she heard of the click of the safety. He set it on the table between them and Joan had to stifle the urge to grab for it.

“After you, doc.” He growled, tipping his head toward the bathroom. She swallowed her nerves and led the way.

The room was already small and in any other circumstance, she might have found it amusing to watch the Joker nearly fold himself in half to fit his head under the faucet. But she knew better than to laugh now.

The air between them was charged after their last argument, the tension dissolving into something less potent but still somehow dangerous. Things had changed, shifted. And whatever edge she’d gotten on him, whatever ground she’d gained, she had lost, landing her back at square one.

He’d said she could have the gun back if she could play along. So play along she would.

The angle was awkward and the water shockingly cold, but she managed as best she could, partly relieved to find the wound on the back of his head was not as bad as she imagined; it was already starting to clot. Still, she was gentle as she picked shards of glass from the tender meat of his scalp. If she was hurting him she couldn’t tell. He had gotten quiet again. Except for his labored breathing. She tried not to think about how intimate this was. Like something she would do for a lover or a child. So instead, she let her mind wander, out of the room, back into the hull of the tanker.

“That money...it belongs to the mob doesn’t it?”

“Mhmm.”

“I remember the robberies. And watching you on the news.” She paused to add another piece of glass to her collection on the edge of the sink. “I remember being mad that you’d pulled your stitches out.”

He grunted out a laugh, chuckling at some private joke. “You don’t like my scars, Joanie?”

Her fingers were growing numb from the water and it was getting more difficult to tease the smaller bits of glass from his hair, but she was nearly finished, already thinking about going back to bed. Just being so close to the Joker was exhausting, nevermind making small talk. She shut off the water with a sigh, wringing her hands for a moment to get some feeling back in them. “I think they suit you.”

He shuffled out from under the faucet, stretching out to his full height. His body towered over her in the small space and something small and frightened in the back of her mind spoke up to point out he was standing between her and the door.

“Wanna know how I got ‘em?” he murmured, his voice pitched at a low unsettling purr. “I’m kinda hurt you never asked.”

She could feel him starting to launch into one of his diatribes and she was tired of him already. But he was blocking the door. Her hand inched closer to the pile of glass she’d pulled from the back of his head. Just in case.

“If I kiss you again, will you leave me alone? Is that how this works?”

To her surprise, he sort of smiled. Smacked his lips thoughtfully. “Hmmm I don’t know. Wanna find out?”

This close she could feel the unnatural heat of his body, worsening the flush in her own face. She tried not to look right at him, opting instead to watch a stray droplet of water slide down from the bridge of his nose and onto the floor. It was tinged pink with his blood. “I want my gun.”

He was quiet for a moment, the look in his eyes unreadable, his small grin giving nothing away. She realized suddenly that she was frightened - not that he might refuse her demand and kiss her anyway, but that she might not mind. That she might even like it.

_It’ll always be like this from now on and it’s your own fault._

But then his smile curdled into a sneer and he stepped back to give her room enough to pass, thrusting an arm out for the door. “All work and no play, huh, Joanie?”

She didn’t reply. Held her breath as she slid past him, as though she were a child walking past a cemetery. The gun was waiting for her on the table, clean as a whistle and happily loaded. It was a comforting weight in her hands as she carried it back to bed with her.

The Joker lingered in the bathroom. Drying off maybe, ringing the last bit of bloody water from his hair. She listened to his movements from where she lay in her bunk, her back to the room. When he finally emerged, she watched his shadow climb across the ceiling. Tried hard not to start when she felt him suddenly behind her, curling around her body the same way she was curled around her hard-won prize. Whether he was just trying to scare her or actually get some sleep, she didn’t know. She pretended to be asleep until she was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i've been gone for a month. the beginning of November was ruff. this chapter long as fuck and just full of UST. thanks for reading.


	16. Chapter 16

_Something’s burning._

The thought fixed itself to the front of her mind, abruptly pushing her out of a dream and into an uneasy consciousness. Before she was even fully awake, her hand went to her gun. Found it just where she had left it, shoved under her pillow. What relief she might have felt was overpowered with worry. She hadn’t dreamt it - something was definitely burning.

She sat up slowly, careful not to hit her head on the upper bunk, and looked around. No Joker. His side of the bed was cold and vaguely damp. Instead, sitting at the foot of the bed was a small pile of clothes. She nudged them gently with her foot. They were light blue scrubs, paired with a white lab coat. Even from a distance the thing looked stiff and cheap - like something you might buy at a costume shop. She didn’t want to assume the outfit was for her, but she had a sinking suspicion.

She was on her feet, trying to shake off the last flashes of her dream ( _dark and red and distinctly dirty, something she was happy to forget_ ) when the Joker arrived in a cloud of smoke and gasoline that was so strong she nearly gagged. He was redressed, repainted, and he seemed almost giddy. She didn’t fail to notice the bit of blood on his face, a garish hint of recent victory.

“Oh good, you’re up. Right on schedule.” He didn’t look at her as he sauntered into the room, moving first to the desk to collect a few half-made remotes and other electrical ends and odds which he quickly deposited into the pockets of his coat.

“What’s with the scrubs?”

“Well I know how much you like playing doctor, Joanie. Thought you might like a shot at the real thing.” The Joker paused to shoot her a small conspiratorial smile. “Get dressed. We leave in ten. Unless you want to stay for the barbeque.” And with that, he turned and left the room.

The joke was lost on her, but she supposed it wasn’t meant for her anyway. She glanced over to the end of the bed, rubbing absently at her mouth where the skin felt hot and ripe with a new bruise, and considered the small pile of clothes. She didn’t feel up to playing doctor, but the smell of burning was already so much stronger than it had been when she woke up. With a sigh, she started to change. This time she kept the gun in the pocket of her crisp new coat. It didn’t quite pair as well with her outfit as her scalpel might have, but it would do nicely for now.

†

“When you said ‘play doctor’, I didn’t think you were being this serious.”

Joan had been patient on the drive. Pressing the Joker with questions usually only got her more questions or more bruises or worse. As they ambled toward the back entrance of Gotham General, it seemed as good a time as any to speak up.

“What made you think I was joking?” She stood back to stare as the Joker paused to adjust his own outfit, tugging at the hem of his nurse’s dress in an almost bashful gesture. _The wig. Definitely the wig_ , she thought and if she weren’t so confused she might have laughed at him, with him. But as they lingered outside, she felt a growing sense of unease.

For one thing, the place was too quiet. She hadn’t spent much time at any hospitals since med school, but she figured there should probably be a bit more traffic around this part of the facility. More security for sure. Maybe a few weary doctors enjoying a smoke in the afternoon sun. Except for a few helicopters whirring in the distance, it was eerily silent. She didn’t like it.

“Why are we here?” She tried, watching the Joker as he fiddled with the straps of his surgical mask. When he looked at her, she could still tell he was smiling.

“Visiting a friend.” More questions. She smiled wanly in return and followed after him as he sailed through the sliding double doors.

As they moved through the hospital, they were greeted with more silence. Empty hallways, empty rooms. Something was definitely wrong here. She could feel herself tensing up for some inevitable attack. Another dirty joke or a bad surprise. There was no hint at what the Joker was up to. The line of his shoulders in his crisp white smock was relaxed, calm, his gait so comfortable it was almost a stroll. But she knew better by now. Her hand went to the gun in her pocket, fingers tracing over the safety as if it might offer her some comfort.

Whatever she was preparing herself for, however, paled in comparison to what they found.

Harvey Dent - or whatever was left of him - was asleep, reclined in his hospital bed. It was hard to believe this was the same man she had seen politicking on television a few days prior. Half of his face was gone, stripped down to the gristle. The other half was still just as handsome, his expression peaceful as he slept, unaware of who was in the room with him. But even as he slept, one eye seemed to keep watch, cold and unmoving, the same horrifying white as his teeth, visible through the muscle of his mouth.

In all her time wrist-deep in other people’s bodies, wading through viscera and organs and blood, she had never seen anything so horrible. She didn’t know whether to cry or scream. What came out instead as she took in the sight of him was a slow, rattling breath.

The Joker was less impressed, striding into the room with a low whistle and promptly snatching Dent’s medical chart from the end of his bed. He muttered to himself as he scanned its contents.

“What happened to him?”, she murmured, inching slowly toward the bed. “Did you -?”

“Not technically,” the Joker replied smartly, snapping open another page on the chart.

The incredulous sound building in her throat was cut off as they were suddenly interrupted. The door behind them swung open, and she was almost shocked to see another person. The cop in the doorway seemed to feel the same.

“Ma’am, we’re gonna have to move him now.”

Joan blinked. Before she could respond, the Joker reached into her coat pocket, retrieved the gun, and shot the man squarely in the chest. She watched in stunned silence as he dragged the body into the room with them and promptly shut the door, lowering the blinds over the hall windows for good measure. The whole altercation took maybe 5 minutes.

“Wake him up, Joanie.”

Her ears were still ringing from the gunfire, her mind foggy with shock. Without the gun in her pocket, she felt unmoored. “What?”

“I said,” the Joker snarled, advancing toward her with unexpected ferocity, “Wake. Him. Up. Now.” He pushed the gun to her temple for good measure and she was suddenly back on her knees, cutting into a stranger to appease a maniac, thrumming with adrenaline and the urge to simply stay alive. It had been a very long time since he had reminded her so explicitly that he was the one in control. She wouldn’t ask him to do it again.

She fought the fear and the rage coiling in her chest and walked nimbly to the hospital bed. It only took her a few minutes to find the IV she was looking for. Whatever was keeping him sedated wasn’t all that different from what she might have used during surgery. If the Joker saw her fingers hesitate on the mechanism that controlled the drip flow, he didn’t say anything. He was too busy adjusting the hospital bed, steadily raising Dent into a sitting position.

Before she could think better of it, she rolled the clamp beneath her fingers, gradually reducing the sleeping agent until it was shut off entirely. When she was done, she stepped aside, backing quietly away from the bed. If Harvey Dent woke up, she didn’t want to be the first face he saw. And as it turns out it wasn’t.

The Joker was quick to discard his disguise as soon as Dent was awake and aware enough to give him the reaction he so obviously craved. Dent’s rage was palpable and he was breathing hard as he flailed in the restraints that tied him to the hospital bed, arms flung out uselessly to try and grab at the man who had put him there. The sight was so pathetic, she averted her eyes.

“You know,” the Joker began, settling into a chair across from Dent and fiddling briefly with his hair, “I don’t want there to be any hard feelings between us, Harvey. When you and, uh -”

“ _RACHEL._ ”

Dent’s roar sent Joan staggering back against the wall, knocking over a small tray sitting on a nearby end table. The sound drew his attention and he looked over at her, his face a horrid mask of anger and confusion and pain. She stared right back, frozen in place. The Joker kept right on talking.

“ - I was sitting in Gordon’s cage! Now I didn’t rig those charges.”

That drew Dent’s attention away. “Your men. Your plan.”

“Do I really look like a guy with a plan?” There was a familiar something in his voice. Joan had heard it before. Back at her apartment maybe. When he had tried to ‘kiss’ and make up after leaving her for the cops. Even if it wasn’t being directed at her, it was no less infuriating.

“You know what I am?” the Joker continued, ignoring Dent as he continued to seethe and jerk half-heartedly against his straps, “I’m a dog chasing cars...I wouldn’t know what to do with one if I caught it! You know? I just _do things_.”

Dent’s eyes rolled in his skull, fixing briefly on Joan and she wished suddenly that she might melt into the wall. “The mob has plans. The cops have plans. _Gordon’s_ got plans. They’re _schemers_ \- schemers trying to control their little worlds. I’m not a schemer. No, I try to show the schemers how _pathetic_ their attempts to control things really are.” At this, he glanced over at her. She wanted to scream. Instead, she turned and headed straight for the door. If he was going to deliver this monologue again, she didn’t want to hear it.

“Where’re you going, Joanie?”

She paused with her hand on the door handle. She hadn’t heard the click of a gun, but she wouldn’t put it past him to use it again. She glanced back over her shoulder to find the two men staring at her expectantly.

Joan eyed the gun where it sat on a nearby overbed tray and considered the distance. The Joker was definitely closer and he was certainly a faster hand than she was. She wondered briefly if she ran, whether or not he would chase her down and shoot her. She didn’t like her odds either way. Reluctantly, she turned away from the door.

“You’re being mighty neglectful of the patient,” he hummed, inclining his head toward Dent, “I bring you out here and now you want to leave? How’s that supposed to make me feel?” The Joker sighed as he stood and began to putter around Dent’s bed, loosening his hand straps as he went, “ Besides, I think you might find that you and Harvey here have a lot in common. You were schemers, you had plans. Annnnd,” he paused to laugh, “Look where that got yah!”

With his hands free, Dent immediately lunged for the Joker’s neck, his lips pulled back in a silent snarl. His heart rate monitors began to trill in excitement and again she felt the incredible urge to simply run away. This time she acted on it, moving swiftly through the door and back out into the hallway.

Everything was just as ominously empty as it had been before and she was grateful as she shuffled mutely down the hall. She didn’t know how long she had until the Joker realized she was gone, but she didn’t care. She didn’t get very far, maybe a few doors down, before she nearly collapsed.

Time seemed to shudder to a stop and she was caught in a sudden bout of vertigo that left her knees shaky and her stomach slick. She tried to even out her breathing, tried to count down from ten, gritting her teeth through the great pressure sitting squarely in her chest. But it wouldn’t stop. And she couldn’t breathe.

The last time she’d had a panic attack of this caliber had been at university. After the assault, when it became clear that no one was going to take her side or even believe what had happened to her, with her father five years cold in the ground and nothing and no one to go home to but an empty house. When the panic hit, she had stepped entirely out of her body, watched it writhe and seize and scream on the floor in a fit of tears and gnashing teeth, and decided then and there that she would never let anything else hurt her. Nothing would ever bring her back down to that point.

But it was happening now. And even as she tried to steady her breathing, as she struggled against the screams building in her lungs, as she willed herself to stay upright, she realized that what had driven her from the room wasn’t fear or irritation or disgust - it was _shame_.

Because she felt responsible for what happened to Harvey Dent. Because she had helped the man who destroyed his life. Played his games, bandaged his wounds, slept soundly in his bed. The thought sent her stomach heaving and she clenched her jaw against the urge to vomit.

There had been a million opportunities to kill the Joker and free herself in the process. If she had, maybe Dent would still have the other half of his face. Maybe so many other people might still be alive.

She hadn’t cared before now. Wrapped up in the Joker’s schemes, it had been easy to pretend this was all about her, that her life was the only one being interrupted or at the very least, the only one that mattered. And she could admit she had been selfish, had only been doing what she could to survive the Joker. But there was only so long she could pretend to be neutral. Staring into Harvey Dent’s face had convinced her of that.

It couldn’t have been another five minutes before the Joker was emerging from Dent’s room down the hall. By then she had her breathing mostly back under control. She watched as he lingered outside of the room, pausing to steal a pump of hand sanitizer and glancing left and then right until he spotted her.

“Well, Joanie, I’m disappointed,” he muttered, rubbing furiously at his hands, “I finally give you a chance at being a real doctor and you blow it. I would’ve left you behind if I knew you were gonna get all - ” He wiggled his fingers at her “ - on me.”

She pushed herself back up to full height and blinked against the surging dizziness. “Did you kill him?” She didn’t know why she needed to know, but she did.

“Who? Dent?” The Joker’s eyebrows crinkled comically. “Nah, he’s free to go. If he can make it out in time, that is. Speaking of which!” And with that he reached out for her wrist and swung her around, pulling her down the hall behind him like a wayward child.

She was still too wrecked from her attack to do more than stumble along. Found herself actually holding onto him to steady herself. Her knees were still shaking. That seemed to amuse him.

“Aww, Joanie,” he purred, patting a clammy hand against hers as they rounded a corner, “Don’t you worry. There'll be plenty of time to make things up to me later.” He reached into the pocket of his dress and produced what she instantly recognized as a detonator, shoddily made but otherwise plainly menacing. Her pace slowed when she caught sight of it and he sharply yanked her along. As they neared the end of the hall, he flipped the cap on his device and clicked it, muttering a cartoonish “kaboom” as the first charges began.

The sound was deafening and seemed to come from everywhere at once. The rooms they had just passed moments ago exploded with a roar of flame and smoke, expelling waves of glass and plywood into the hall. She felt a great breath of heat wash up against the back of her neck and had to duck to keep a wayward plank of what used to be a door from narrowly beheading her. Through it all, the Joker kept walking, seemingly unfazed by the building collapsing around them.

When they finally emerged through the front entrance of the hospital, they were greeted by a waiting crowd of anxious-looking hospital staff and a few brave reporters loitering next to their news vans, all of them standing at a distance beside a veritable fleet of yellow school buses. So that’s where everyone was, she thought distantly, squinting through the smoke and sunlight. She stared back at the horrified faces peering out at her from a nearby bus and wondered if she looked like a hostage or an accomplice. At this point, it was safe to say she was both.

The Joker paused, just clear of the cascading rubble, and turned to face the building, clearly waiting on some final blast. He made a noise of exasperation, letting go of her in favor of gesturing at the wreckage and tinkering with the device in his hand.

They both jumped as a new and greater explosion ripped through the far side of the hospital and before she could linger to see the damage, he was pushing her into the bus and climbing in after her. She thought she recognized the man who shut the door after them and signaled for the driver to take off, but she couldn’t be sure. If any of the other passengers noticed who was now riding in the back of their getaway bus, they didn’t give any indication of alarm, still too busy recovering from the force of the blasts that had demolished the hospital in under a minute. Beside her, however, the Joker was practically bouncing in his seat, humming to himself as the bus peeled away from the curb. He eventually caught her staring, his eyes swiveling in their sockets, bright with sordid glee.

“Why so serious, Joanie?” he whispered, his tongue darting out from between his lips to lick at his scars, “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were trying to spoil my fun.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible,” she muttered in reply and hastily shrugged out of her coat. It felt almost rude to still be wearing it.

“You oughta smile more. In fact, I have just the thing that might cheer you up.” He leaned over to dig in his other pocket, effectively shoving himself into her lap. She groaned under the weight of him and was ready to start snapping at him - until she saw what was in his hand.

Her gun.

He shuffled back onto his side of the bench and sighed. “You didn’t quite measure up to my lofty expectations, Joanie, but I’m willing to let it slide.” He took a moment to pull and click the slide into place. “Since you’ve been so _sweet_ after all.”

He set the gun in her lap and leaned over once more to plant a wet kiss squarely on the apple of her cheek. The two gestures were so bizarre, so incongruous, that she found herself at a loss for words. Nevertheless, she quickly covered the gun in her lap with her discarded coat, worried the sight of it might set off a nearby passenger. She didn’t look at the Joker again. Acknowledging him would certainly welcome some more attention.

Instead, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She focused on the swaying of the bus beneath her, vaguely aware of the lingering smudge of makeup drying on her cheek. Her hands were still shaking in her lap, but as they traveled further from the wreckage of the hospital her calm grew, along with her resolution.

By the time they were gliding onto the freeway and barreling toward Gotham proper, she had made up her mind: the next time she had a chance to kill the Joker, she would take it.


	17. Chapter 17

It didn’t take very long for the other passengers to catch on to their current situation. Not once the Joker sprang up and started giving orders. Joan was unsurprised to find a few of his men on board, hiding amongst the hospital staff. Despite his apparent distaste for schemers, the Joker was far more organized than he let on.

Through the pandemonium, she kept her seat at the back of the bus and did her best to ignore the screaming and the futile pleas for mercy. She was determined to stay as calm as possible. Visiting Dent, setting him loose from the hospital, had put something in motion. Something certainly larger than what she had previously imagined. If the Joker’s inappropriately cheerful energy was anything to go by, they were quite literally speeding toward some crucial juncture and the last thing she needed was to lose her head all over again.

The commandeered bus eventually rolled to a stop at a construction site at the base of a half-finished skyscraper. They were near the water. She could smell it - that same rotten odor that set her stomach rolling. The Joker’s men started hustling the hospital staff from the bus, guns in hand. A small news crew had been among the unlucky few to get crowded onto this bus. Through the rear window of the bus, she watched as a handful of henchmen started walking them toward the building. She thought she recognized the anchorman, his usually perky face an uneasy shade of green.

“You’ve been _unusually_ quiet.”

Joan swiveled in her seat to find the Joker ambling down the aisle toward her. They were alone again.

“Nothing to say,” was her murmured reply. The Joker frowned at that, shuffling closer and tossing down a small duffel bag on the seat in front of her.

“But that’s so unlike you,” he muttered as he started to pull clothes out of the bag. She recognized them as parts of his usual, more flamboyant get-up. “You’ve always got at least a few questions to pester me with.” He paused to pull on his pants, shimmying into them with a familiar jingle of his suspender clips, before he started on the buttons of his dress.

“And I never get any answers.” She tried not to look right at him as he changed, but he made it difficult, hovering over her as he was.

“I’m in a generous mood,” he purred, shedding the dress with a suggestive wink, “Try me.”

She fought the heat rising in her cheeks as she stood up, pushing into his space so she could shrug back into her coat. “I think I’ll pass.”

With the gun back in her pocket, she turned toward the front of the bus to leave when he grabbed her suddenly from behind. His arms wound tightly around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The heat coming off his bare skin made her head spin and she struggled to take a full breath.

“There you go again, spoiling my fun,” he growled, tucking his chin over her shoulder so he could speak directly in her ear, “I thought we went over this - I say do something and you _do_ it.” He squeezed her once, hard, around the middle and her ribs gave slightly under the pressure. “Now - let’s try again. I’ll make it easy for you. Why don’t you ask me why we’re here, hmm? You always used to like that one.”

He squeezed her again and the question came out on a gasp. “Why are we here?”

“Atta girl,” he purred and nuzzled his cheek against hers, “We’re here to watch the fireworks.” He twisted slightly toward the windows, still clutching her to him. “By nightfall this city will be mine and I’ve picked the perfect spot to watch the shit spray. I’m not much of a romantic, but I think this’ll do nicely, don’t you?”

The sun was just starting to set, spilling molten orange light across the bay and making the water flash with fire. Just beyond, the shadow of the city loomed. She squinted against the glare, trying to focus on her breathing but it was hard with him holding her so tightly. She tried to wiggle out of his grasp but that only made him hold her tighter.

“I’ve been playing real nice, Joan,” he muttered. He adjusted his grip on her waist so he could curl a hand around her throat and at that, she froze. “But I don’t tolerate pouting. If you want to shed a tear for dear ol’ Dent, you can do it on your own time. So when we get off this bus, I want to see a smile on that face. Or I’ll put one there myself. We clear?”

She managed a nod.

And then all at once, he was gone from behind her, unwinding his arms from her body and leaving her cold. She stood there for a moment, numb with the sudden rush of adrenaline, and watched as he went back to busying himself with the rest of his preparations as though nothing had happened.

Eventually, when she could be sure her legs wouldn’t give out, she edged toward the front door. Staring for so long at the sun dancing on the water had left her momentarily blind and she tried not to fall on her face as she descended the stairs and walked out into the twilight.

The Joker’s men along with the hostages were gone, no doubt already holed up in the high-rise. If she listened, she thought she could hear the echo of a sob in the distance. But she might have been imagining things. She took a few steps toward the building and when she was sure she was alone, she reached into her pocket and pulled out her gun. The safety was already off and when she cocked the hammer, she felt something inside her fall into place.

She could still feel his hand around her neck, his mouth at her ear, his fingers in her hair. No one had ever touched her the way he did. No one dared. Except for him. Because he knew how it scared her, made her freeze up like a bit of prey. All her life had been dedicated to turning her mind into a steel fortress. So that whatever happened to her body, she might still survive. And it had always worked. When she was in his arms, her pulse hammering under the grip of his fingers, she had forced her mind away. To the next moment of freedom, to the next breath of fresh air.

But it was coming back to her now, just like the shame she had felt at the hospital. A terrible, sickening wave of rage that nearly overwhelmed her, made the gun tremble in her hands. Except this time, she would stand her ground.

A few minutes later, she heard the Joker dismount from the bus, the crunch of gravel announcing his approach. She turned completely around to face him and when she caught his eye, she took aim.

At the sight of the gun, he scowled, his face contorting itself in contrived exasperation “What now, Joanie? I could really do without any more dramatics.” He shuffled closer, his feet kicking up a cloud of dust as he pulled them through the dirt.

“What’s got you so wound up, huh?” he asked after a moment of tense silence, “Was it Dent? The hostages? You suddenly clutching your pearls? You can’t just grow a moral backbone, yah know.”

“I actually can.”

“Okay, but can it wait until after tonight? If you hadn’t noticed I’m on a bit of a tight schedule.” He came to stop just a few feet away, well within shooting range, and raised his hands in a shallow show of defense. “You don’t kill people - remember?”

“I could make an exception. Just this once.”

“Ahh, I get it,” he smiled, wagging a finger at her, “You got to play doctor and _now_ you want to play hero! So that when all this is over you can tell your loved ones that at the very end you put up a fight and stood up in the face of _true evil_.” He took one final step closer, nudging the end of the barrel with his chest. “But like I said - time’s a wastin Joanie - so why don’t you hurry up and take your shot?” His fingers wrapped around the nose of the gun, moving it to rest directly over his heart. Then, his hands down by his sides, he looked back at her plainly and waited.

In all the ways she might have imagined hurting the man who had upended her life, she hadn’t quite pictured it this way. She had imagined a fight, a wild struggle for the gun maybe. But this was something else entirely. This was almost civilized.

If she was being honest with herself, she didn’t feel very heroic. If any of her pride was still intact, she might have felt foolish. Instead, she was only tired. All her lofty aspirations for freedom and justice and _rightness_ \- and in the end, she was faced with another one of his games, one inevitably rigged against her. There would be no coming back from whatever choice she made. But for now, the choice was still hers. With her heart in her throat, she curled her finger around the trigger. She hesitated for only the briefest moment, but it was all he needed.

A few things happened at once.

The Joker’s hand flew back up to grip the gun, pushing her arm up and away from him. The shock of his advance jolted her finger against the trigger and she fired off a shot into the air above them. Her body shook from the force of the blast and she was too stunned to notice as the Joker reached into the pocket of his coat. He lunged at her and for a moment, she thought he might punch her in the stomach. What she felt instead of his fist was an indescribable searing pain lancing through her middle like a bolt of fire.

She looked down to find a scalpel, _her_ scalpel, wedged just under the right side of her rib cage. When she glanced back up at the Joker, halfway hopeful that this wasn’t real, that this was some kind of sick joke, he smiled and twisted the blade.

The only thing more overwhelming than the disbelief was the pain, agony so bright and horrible it brought her to her knees. She stared dumbly at the silver handle now protruding from her middle, watched as the blood began to flood down her side, painting her blue scrubs a gorish violet. Distantly she was aware of the Joker prying the gun from her hand. She let him take it without much fight.

“You’ve really done it this time, Joanie,” he murmured, but he sounded far away, foggy and distorted under the rush of blood howling in her ears, “Although I can’t say I’m not surprised. I really thought you were trying to see things my way. And we were having so much fun!”

She summoned enough breath into her lungs to curse at him, tried to ignore the fact that her tongue tasted like copper. “Fuck you.”

He put his hand on her chest and pushed. It was a light shove, as gentle as he’d ever been with her, but in her state it knocked her flat onto her back. The pain in her middle multiplied and her next breath came out as a whimper. Her hands went immediately to the scalpel, careful not to move it too much as she applied pressure to the wound.

“You’re not in much of a position to be using that kind of language,” he smirked, leering over her with his hands on his knees, posed like a child over a ripe bit of roadkill. “It’s been fun, honeybunch. And for what it’s worth, I’m real sorry you won’t get to see the fireworks.”

And with that, he righted himself and walked away, whistling as he went. She listened to the sound of his footsteps until he was gone and the lot was silent, save for the ragged rhythm of her breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leaving you with a cliff hanger because i'm evil


	18. Chapter 18

For the first time in a very long time, Joan felt nothing.

No fear, no fury. As if it were pouring out of her side, carried on the tide of her blood. Despite the pain that was threatening to split her in half, her mind was clear. Focused. It was the adrenaline, she knew, and it would only carry her so far. By her estimation, an hour or two. If she was lucky. And she hadn’t been very lucky as of late.

But she’d cut into countless bodies in her lifetime, could map them with her eyes closed. So that’s what she did - she closed her eyes, fought the cold and the exhaustion already threatening to drag her deeper, and tried to think her way out of this.

_He hadn’t stabbed her too deep. Couldn’t, not with a blade that short. On the right side - just shy of her ribs - no way he hit her liver. Her lungs?_

She tried for a full breath and nearly screamed when the pain exploded inside her chest, a few tears springing to her eyes and blurring the evening sky above her.. Maybe he’d nicked one of her lungs after all. No way to tell, not until she made it to a hospital. In the meantime, she was losing a lot of blood even for the pressure she kept on the wound. The entire right side of her body was wet with it, damp and warm, like something horrible and newly born. She wanted out of her clothes, out of her body. Considered rolling over and simply falling asleep in the dirt if it meant stepping out of herself for one blessed moment.

But she knew if she went to sleep now, she wouldn’t wake up. And she had already decided she would live - if only to spite the Joker and his fucking fireworks.

Slowly, with all the grace of a dying animal, she got her legs under her and stood up. The same vertigo from the hospital hit her and she closed her eyes as the world shifted in and out of focus, the sudden swaying threatening to send her toppling back onto her ass. When it passed, she turned toward the nearest street and started walking, not caring what direction she was headed. She only needed to put as much distance between her and the Joker as she could. She had every reason to believe he had intended to leave her for dead and god forbid if he or one of his men came out to find the job unfinished.

When she was clear of the construction site, she sped up. Just slightly. Any faster than a brisk pace would only hurry more blood from the tear in her side. Thankfully her brain was still moving faster than her body.

She hadn’t been paying much attention on the bus ride but she knew she was on the west side of town, near where the ferries docked, carting hundreds of suburban transplants to and from the city for work. By now, the area was likely swamped with business stiffs trying to hustle home, so hailing a cab was out of the question. Even if she could manage a ride, the rush hour gridlock would likely result in her bleeding out in the back of a cab. She didn’t want to die listening to a cabbie gripe at her for getting blood on the seats.

Her only other chance at survival lived about twenty blocks south. If he was even still in the city. Or still alive. She considered her odds as she stopped to rest against a nearby building. Her aimless walking had brought her back to the fringes of civilization, but the few people who passed paid her no mind. She almost didn’t blame them. The last time she had gone out of her way to help someone she found bleeding to death in the streets - _well_.

She stuttered out a laugh and when she had her bearings and her breath back, she kept walking. She had to pause every few blocks and to anyone who might have been watching her, she was sure she looked like a listing drunk walking home from happy hour. But no one stopped to bother her. In fact, as she stalked ever closer to her destination, she noticed something was off. Wrong.

The usual bored irritation that seemed to saturate the streets had been replaced with a half-frenzied panic. People hurried down the sidewalk in droves, some of them seeking momentary shelter under city scaffolding to place phone calls in animated whispers, others obstinately yelling in the street for an available cab. The gridlock was worse than she previously imagined, cars and taxis and buses and police cruisers packed bumper to bumper across every intersection, horns blaring with an almost helpless urgency. Whatever the Joker was planning had evidently been put into motion.

Every time a cop car passed, she made sure to shield her face. Her last escapade with the cops had properly convinced them of her guilt, even if it was by association. The last thing she needed was for Taos or one of his buddies to find her. Taos hadn’t been entirely sold on the idea of keeping her alive and that was _before_ she drugged his men and skipped out on his ambush party.

All the hectic activity in the streets only encouraged her to keep walking. The hot ache in her side had evolved into a tingling numbness that while a pleasant respite from the pain probably meant she had lost a dangerous amount of blood. She tried not to let the thought frighten her as she rounded the last block and limped up the street toward her destination. When she finally mounted the stairs to the small and chicly modern condominium, she hoped to god or the devil or whoever had delivered her thus far that she hadn’t bet her last chance at survival on bad faith.

With her full weight resting on the door, she pressed the buzzer and waited as it rang, her pulse jumping in her neck. Once, twice, three times. And then finally - a familiar voice crackled over the intercom.

“Who is it?” Paranoid as ever.

“Sasha, let me in.”

“ _Joan_?”

She was ready to start up with some kind of explanation but he was already buzzing her in, the door swinging wide as she shuffled through the entry way toward the elevator that would take her up to his loft. When the elevator doors slid apart, his front door was already open and Sasha was standing just inside, ready to usher her in. The look on his face when he saw her nearly broke her heart and if there were tears in her eyes when she met his gaze, she blamed the pain.

“Holy shit.”

“I know” she muttered, as she stumbled out of the elevator. “Give me a hand would you?”

He did as she asked, let her lead the way into the kitchen, didn’t protest when she asked him to clear off the stainless steel island so she had somewhere bright and clean to lie down. He left just once to fetch a pillow for her head and when he returned, she got her first good look at him.

He was certainly still alive, if not worse for wear. The Joker’s goons had certainly done a number on him. The right side of his face looked tenderized, badly swollen and smudged with green and purple bruises. His left arm was broken, wedged awkwardly in a makeshift sling. If she’d had the energy, she might have teased him for it. But it didn’t feel appropriate now.

“I was worried you might be dead.” When she finally spoke, she couldn’t hear the tears in her voice and she was glad for it.

“So was I,” he replied, his eyes skittering wildly over her body as though searching for other wounds before landing on her face, “I’m calling an ambulance.”

Her laugh came out as a wheeze. “Ambulance is going to take a while. In the meantime, might need you to finally get your hands dirty.”

She expected him to wince or complain or maybe even turn a little green. But he didn’t flinch. “What do you need?”

“Bowl of warm water and a few clean towels. Antiseptic if you got it.” He was gone and back in a flash, impressively composed for someone with a broken arm and a freshly bleeding body in their kitchen. She had never seen him so calm and she was grateful. Relieved. Even with a knife sticking out of her side and blood pooling in her shoes, she couldn’t remember that last time she had felt so at ease.

“I couldn’t find any antiseptic - will alcohol do? I’ve got vodka.”

She grinned despite herself as she watched him pull a frosty looking bottle from the freezer. “Vodka will do nicely.” She had half a mind to ask him for a shot, but held her tongue.

With all his supplies gathered on the countertop, Sasha seemed to hesitate, hovering over her with his only good hand curled in a soft fist. “I called the ambulance when I was in the bathroom. You were right about the wait. They’re on their way, but I’ll need you to walk me through this, Joan. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You’ll be fine,” she murmured, already laying her head back to settle on the pillow, her eyes feeling heavy, “Just don’t pull the knife out.”

She felt his hand slide around the back of her neck and she startled, eyes wide, panic suddenly flooding her veins as she momentarily forgot where she was, who she was with. If Sasha noticed her alarm he didn’t say anything.

“I need you to stay awake. Talk me through it.” His fingers flexed on the back of her neck, helping to tilt her head up just slightly. “Please.”

She nodded drowsily, summoning up the last of her energy even as the room around her began to swim. With cold hands, she gestured down to her side. “You’re going to have to cut my shirt to get to the incision. Then you gotta clear the blood as best you can. I’ll keep pressure on it so you can see what you’re doing. And like I said - don’t pull anything out.”

Sasha nodded in turn, rummaging in a nearby drawer for a pair of kitchen shears and removing as much of her shirt as he could manage one-handed. From there, he wet one of the towels with a splash of warm water and started cleaning the wound. At the first touch of his fingers, the right side of her body lit up with pain. A good thing, she reasoned even as her breath caught in her chest and a fresh prickle of sweat cropped up on her brow.

“How does it look?”

“I’ve seen worse. I’m sure you have too.” He discarded his newly sullied towel for a clean one. “Did….he do this?”

She opted out of an answer, staring up at the ceiling instead. Her silence was answer enough.

“Where is he?”

“He’s not coming here,” she managed, “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

“It’s not.” He frowned, setting aside his towel to unscrew the cap on the bottle of vodka. “Joan, I -”

She stopped whatever he might have said next by reaching out and roughly tilting the neck of the bottle, pouring out a shot or two over her middle. She bit back a scream, squeezing her eyes shut as her skin sang with fresh agony. The pain she could handle. What she couldn’t handle was his tenderness. His concern. His _love_. It hurt so much worse than the wound in her side.

“Just keep me alive, Sasha,” she murmured, watching through half-lidded eyes as he hurried to mop up a fresh wave of blood, “It can wait, okay?” She turned her head away, shame welling up like vomit in her throat.

He didn’t reply, stayed busy at her side, pausing every now and then to rinse her blood from the towels and to refresh the bowl of water. Her eyes felt heavy and she swam in and out of consciousness, gladly gave into the wave of warmth as it surged across her body, promising to carry her someplace safe.

She didn’t feel the pain anymore and her thoughts were quiet. She wasn’t thinking about the Joker or Gotham or all the fetid blood and pointless death that had brought her there. Her mind was miles away. She thought of Sawyer, of the house waiting for her on the beach. She could almost smell the sweet salt of the ocean and when she finally slipped under, she smiled.


	19. Chapter 19

_“Ms. Gallo?”_

The voice came from far away. Light years away. Rippling through the incessant nothingness like a stone on the surface of dark water.

She couldn’t answer, but she found she didn’t really want to. She felt safe where she was, wherever or whenever she was. Swaddled and warm, as though her head, her whole body were stuffed with cotton. If this was roll call in heaven or hell, she would pass.

_Mark me down as absent, chief._

“Ms. Gallo?” The voice came again, with clearer urgency this time.

Joan opened her eyes.

Not heaven or hell. But close - a hospital room. Through the glare of the overhead lights, she could just make out the cruddy popcorn ceiling, the flat blue walls, the stench of Lysol and stale air. She grimaced, shut her eyes again in the hopes of sinking back into whatever peace she’d found in the dark. But the illusion had been inelegantly shattered - she was definitely still alive.

“Glad to have you back with us.” That same voice, gentle but sure, spoke up at her right. She squinted over to the man sitting beside her hospital bed and found he was a stranger. Middle-aged, glasses, limp moustache. He looked like a cop. Just looking at him gave her a headache.

“Who are you?” Her own voice was rough, her tongue dry and swollen, stuck to the roof of her mouth.

“Commissioner Jim Gordon.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

“Seems we have that in common.”

Something like a laugh stuttered in the back of her throat, but her amusement was tempered by a dull throb of pain in her side. She cringed and curled inward, moving instinctively to hold her side - only to find her right hand chained to the bed’s side rail.

“Sorry about that,” Gordon murmured, noticing the veil of disbelief and contempt passing over her face, “A bit gauche, I know, but it’s standard procedure for persons of interest.”

She blinked, the handcuff burning coldly around her wrist. “Persons of interest?”

“You’ve been previously detained on suspicion of criminal involvement with the Joker,” he explained.

“Oh, you mean when some of your buddies locked me in my apartment and used me as bait?”

Gordon’s mustache twitched. “Yes, unfortunately, that is what I mean.”

“So what is this? Take two?”

“No, Ms. Gallo,” he signed, leaning forward in his chair to rest his elbows on his knees, “I was hoping to do what Detective Taos didn’t, what he failed to do. Which is to get your side of the story. All of it. If you’re willing to tell it.”

“Well, I don’t have much choice, do I?” she spat, using what little energy she had to rattle the handcuff around her wrist. The rude sound of the clanging metal echoed between them, momentarily disrupting the quiet of the room.

Gordon reached toward her and she flinched away, worried for a moment that he might take advantage of their solitude to hurt her. But instead, he quickly and carefully undid the cuff from around her wrist.

“Now, you do,” he said neatly, sliding the cuffs into his jacket pocket as he sat back down. He pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose, his expression patient as ever. Faced with his kindness, she almost felt ashamed for flinching. Almost.

“This isn’t a confession,” she stated, but it came out more like a question.

He shook his head, gesturing for her to continue as he settled back into his chair. “Not at all. This is just your story. However and whatever you choose to share. Please.”

She studied him for a long stretch of silence, her hands folded in her lap. Even for his whole docile paternal act, she didn’t know if she could trust him. But just as quickly as she sized him up, she decided it didn’t really matter. This was obviously the end of the line. She wasn’t dead yet, but she was fixed squarely in the eye of the law whether or not Gordon decided to put those cuffs back on her. And she was so tired. Exhausted from carrying all of the shit of the last few weeks on her shoulders.

Besides - if the Joker had wanted him dead, maybe, _maybe_ he was a halfway decent man. If that was the case, she could find it in herself to cooperate. Just this once.

So she told him. Started from the beginning, all those months ago when she had found a man bleeding out in the street and decided, on a whim, to save his sorry life. How that same man had turned into a monster, had found her and sucked her into his schemes. How she’d been abducted and then inducted, forced to use her medical training to patch up him and his men. How she’d managed to survive his fury, his madness and, worst of all, his affections - until now.

Gordon let her talk, didn’t pester her with any questions for which she was thankful. Made it all feel like less of an interrogation. She paused every now and then, to ask for a glass of water, to catch her breath. Talking was harder than she originally anticipated. They were momentarily interrupted by a nurse who came once to take her vitals now that she was awake and then again to deliver her lunch and a dose of painkillers which made things a hell of a lot easier. As she went on, she tried not to focus too much on any sort of timeline since the days she had spent with the Joker all seemed to blend together into one long disoriented spell of bullshit.

And she left out some choice details. Gordon didn’t really need to know what she’d been up to before the Joker came along. She was in enough trouble as it was without bringing _that_ into it.

When she was finished, Gordon was still sitting quietly, arms-crossed, as attentive as a schoolboy. His silence annoyed her, so she took that moment to dig into the pudding cup on her lunch tray. Figured she’d earned her dessert and then some.

“Well?” she muttered eventually, giving the plastic lid a lick before tossing it back onto the tray and picking up her spoon, “Was it everything you imagined and more?”

“It was something.” His mustache gave another twitch and she realized that meant he was trying not to smile. “Thank you.”

She shrugged one shoulder, eyes fixed on her snack. “So is this the part where you ask me where he is? Because I can’t help you there and I won’t try and I’m not sorry.”

“Oh no, that won’t be necessary. We have the Joker in custody.”

She froze, spoon hovering midway between her mouth and the tray. She lowered it slowly, finally glancing up at Gordon, distantly aware that all the air had been sucked out of the room.

“You caught him?” Her voice sounded thick, curdled with shock.

He nodded once. To her surprise, he didn’t look smug. His expression was almost mournful. It struck her as strange.

“Blackgate?”

“Arkham. He’ll stay there while he awaits trial.”

Joan tried to imagine the Joker in court, standing trial in an orange jumpsuit. Found she couldn’t. Realized she didn’t have to. Because he’d been caught and she would never have to see him again. This was probably the part where she was supposed to smile or weep with gratitude. She took another spoonful of pudding instead, although she didn’t really taste it. She swallowed past the lump in her throat.

“What does this mean for me?”

“As far as I’m concerned,” he replied, “Nothing at all. From the looks of it, you were not a willing accomplice but a hostage, doing what she had to do to survive a horrible situation. If you ask me, your only crime was a momentary act of kindness.”

_That_ was enough to bring her out of state of sudden shock. “I wouldn’t go that far,” she muttered, rolling her eyes at the sentimentality.

“Alright,” he relented, “If you say so. It’s your story after all.” He stood then, hitching up the sides of his pants and flattening his tie with a pass of his hand. She eyed him, half-expecting him to reach back into his jacket for the cuffs.

“So that’s it?” She sat up a little as he wandered away from his chair and over to the door on the other side of the room, “That’s all you wanted?”

He paused with his hand on the door handle and when he looked back at her, he let himself smile. A quiet, discreetly victorious thing. “Yes, Ms. Gallo. Thank you for your time.” And then he left.

Through the hanging blinds over the window, she squinted to watch him as he lingered for a moment in the hallway. He was talking to someone, another man. She couldn’t quite see his face, but his hair was cut short, buzzed with military precision. _Taos_. Her stomach soured with rage and when the door to her room swung open again, she was already preparing herself for a confrontation.

But it wasn’t Taos. It was Sasha, looking wan and weary, so pale he was almost blue under the harsh fluorescent lights. He hesitated in the doorway, unsure if he should intrude.

At the sight of him, so timid and unassuming even after he had saved her life, even after she had nearly ruined his, she was floored by an incredible fondness. Maybe this was where she was supposed to cry. She opted out again and offered him a small smile, one he returned as he edged slowly into the room as though moving too fast might upset her.

“Hi,” he whispered, sidling up to the bed and doing his best not to draw too much attention to the large bouquet of roses he was carrying in his good hand. He put them aside the first chance he got, setting them gently next to her feet. “How are you feeling?”

“Well, I’m no longer cuffed to the bed, so great. All things considered.” She gestured to her right side.

He grimaced. “That cop didn’t come down too hard on you, did he?”

She shrugged, surprised to find she was still smiling like a loon. “Took it like a champ. You know me."

They fell silent, staring at each other. He shifted his weight, clenching and unclenching his right hand down by his side. He was still the same old Sasha - willowy, nervous, just shy of odd - but there was something different. Shades of that quiet composure she had seen back at his apartment, as though something in him had shifted and solidified. Maybe he’d finally ditched the coke. Maybe surviving a midnight showdown with the Joker’s men had hardened his nerves into flint. Whatever it was, Joan liked it.

“Thank you for saving my life, Sasha.”

It was his turn to shrug, his eyes glancing away from her face. Even for the bruising on his cheekbones, she could tell he was fighting off a blush. “No need for all that. I’m just glad....” He trailed off, taking a few steps closer to her as he rubbed self-consciously at the back of his head. “Well...when he took you I just wasn’t sure you’d be coming back.” When he reached out to take her hand, she didn’t flinch away. “I’m glad you came back.”

She felt a flare of heat behind her eyes, threatening to break her easy smile. She bit down hard on her bottom lip, ignored the sting of the bruise there and the thought of the man who had given it to her, and gripped his hand back even harder. If she spoke now, she might finally start crying so she let the silence linger on. Sasha went right on holding her hand.

After a while, she cleared her throat and gladly accepted the glass of water that he handed to her. “Did you get me those?” She inclined her head to the roses still lying on the end of her bed.

Sasha blushed again. “Uh...no, actually. I know you don’t really go for stuff like that. They were a delivery. Came when you were in here with that cop.” He picked up the flowers and gave them to her. “Hope that doesn’t ruin this moment we were having or whatever.”

But she couldn’t hear him, panic swelling inside her so quickly she thought it might cause her lungs to burst. Joan didn’t have any friends or family, no one who might think to send her something thoughtful. The only person who would was standing next to her. She willed her hands not to shake as she turned the bouquet over. Nestled amongst the thorns was a handwritten note that confirmed her fears, scribbled over a generic, heinously cheerful illustration of a teddy bear with a heart on his tummy.

_Get well soon_ , it read. At the bottom, in striking red ink, it was signed only “ _J_ ”.

“Sasha?” she murmured, doing her best to keep her voice calm, “Do me a favor and throw these in the trash, will you?”

His eyebrows shot up, eyes skittering back and forth between her face and the flowers. “You sure?”

She nodded curtly, all but flinging them into his hands. He took it and without another word, walked to the far side of the hospital room and deposited the bouquet into the stainless steel garbage bin next to the door. Joan made a mental note to ask the next nurse that came by to take out the trash as soon as possible. Just having them in the room, even out of sight, made her feel a little sick.

“What was that about?” Sasha was at her side again, but he seemed to sense her distress and didn’t try to take her hand again. She was silently thankful.

“I guess you were right - I really don’t go for flowers,” she replied, leaning back on her pillar of pillows as gently as she could, her eyes still trained on the steel bin across the room as though it might suddenly explode. And she supposed it might.

The Joker knew where she was. Knew she was still alive. Joan didn’t have any illusions about Arkham. They couldn’t hold him for long. He was too well connected, too smart and too hellishly determined. And when he got out - not if, but when - _where would she be_?

She glanced up at Sasha to find him studying her face, his expression a ruddy mask of concern. She tried for another smile, as convincing as she could manage “You ever been to Maryland?”


	20. Epilogue

The town of Sawyer had always kept to itself. It was a quiet, seaside community with a population that barely crested three thousand. It boasted several hundred acres of dunelands and foam-flecked beaches that attracted just enough tourists in the summer to remind the residents why they kept to themselves.

The citizens of Sawyer, mostly failed farmers, retired antique shop owners, and perpetually drunk crab fishers, were not unkind even if their penchant for gossip and their distaste for outsiders made them prickly. And when news broke that the abandoned property near Gordon Beach had been bought up by some yuppie looking couple, Sawyer was whipped into a veritable frenzy.

The house, two-stories and vaguely Victorian, had been empty for years. Kids used to say it was haunted, would peddle by on their bikes just to throw rocks through the windows and dare each other to knock on the front door. The roof was sagging and the clapboard siding was dingy and the porch was overgrown with ivy, but the couple - _cityfolk_ , it was rumored, the term spat behind church fans and murmured over pints of beer like a slur - had bought it anyway. Lived for a few months in a nearby motel while they fixed up the place and moved in a few months later with almost nothing.

She was mean-looking and well - _black_ \- even though you weren’t supposed to say that and the man she was living with wasn’t her husband, even though you weren’t supposed to say that either. And in true, Sawyer fashion they kept to themselves. Worst of all they seemed immune to the chatter, to the keen and not altogether untoward curiosity that followed them as they came into town proper every other week or so for groceries and gas.

The citizens of Sawyer gave it six months. Then those yuppies would get bored of the beach and the quiet and the needling boredom of small-town life and leave, and the ghosts could move back into the house near Gordon Beach.

†

The new names were Sasha’s idea. Something he’d brought up on the drive to pass the time. Said it would solidify their big move, add a little flair to their new lives in hiding. Joan didn’t like to think of it as “hiding” but that was beside the point. When they sailed out of Gotham in a second-hand rust-colored jalopy, purchased in the dead of night from a friend of a friend, they were Joan and Sasha. And when they rolled into Sawyer, they were “Eve” and “Aaron”. Sasha picked “Aaron” because it sounded Biblical, corn-fed, and more righteous than he had ever felt. Joan picked “Eve” because it was her mother’s name. The cat, who Sasha had saved in the wake of Joan's disappearance, kept his original name.

The house - _her_ house - was in disrepair when they found it and restorations took nearly three months. The roof had to be redone and the interior of the house fumigated and gutted. All of the original furniture was still standing just as Joan had left it, although most of it was crumbling under a thick layer of mold and decay.

As much as it pained her, Joan agreed to throw it all out, save for a few salvageable items: her father’s old desk and his fishing rods, a couple boxes of books and photographs that weren’t too moth-eaten. As soon as the builders - local boys fresh out of puberty with patchy facial hair and gums full of dip - declared the house safe enough to move in, they did. Paid the movers with fat wads of cash and slept on a blow up mattress until they could order proper furniture.

Sasha proved himself more of a handyman than Joan would’ve originally thought. It was late summer by the time they arrived in Sawyer and he assembled all their cheap Ikea furniture during the dog days without too much complaint, working and grunting and sweating in their front yard.

She’d been right about him giving up the drugs and he was better for it. Looked better for it. Watching him from the front window of the house, Joan often felt a hard kick of lust. She admired his new tone, his tan, even his freshly grown beard. But she didn’t touch him. Even if she wanted to. And he, gracious as ever, didn’t touch her.

She wasn’t ready yet. Wouldn’t be ready for another few months. She had trouble sleeping, had trouble waking up. Had trouble eating and masturbating and being alone. She went with Sasha everywhere except the bathroom, insisting that she come along on trips to the grocery or to the hardware store, on walks along the beach or out to the tool shed behind the house.

Something had happened to her, a subtle sort of breaking. As though besting death had come with a price, impairing the previous faculties of her mind, and she and Sasha and the house suffered for it. She got scared when it was just her and the house, swore that every sudden sound was going to announce her death. She prickled at the slightest irritation, bristled with a rage that broke dishes and bent their cheap silverware. Her moods hung over the house like ominous black clouds, pregnant with tremulous emotion. When she awoke in the middle of the night, reeking of nerves and cold sweat, clutching her side, she reached first for the gun at her bedside that wasn’t there and then for Sasha, who was.

Her neediness appalled her, filled her with bitter angry tears that she thumbed away in rare moments of privacy. Sasha called it PTSD, but Joan would never agree on anything so dramatic. She was just having “trouble”. She’d had “trouble” before and it passed. This would pass too. And after a while, it did.

Winter came and the new year with it. On New Year's Eve, four months after they’d arrived in Sawyer, she had Sasha shave her head. Her hair had grown long and unruly and she didn’t have much faith in the hair salons in town. No way the natural hair movement had reached rural Maryland. So a buzz would have to do.

He told her she looked good, that she really looked like an “Eve”, like the Original Woman, as he dusted the loose hair off her shoulders. She shivered and silently agreed. Later on, drunk on a bottle of cheap champagne, she cornered him on the porch when he ventured out for a cigarette and stole the smoke from his mouth. They christened the new house, finally, and she fell asleep fast beneath him, too tired to remember to be afraid of the dark.

In the spring, with the house nearly settled into place, she got restless, peevish, manic. It was only a matter of time. Two city slickers stranded in the country due to circumstance, accustomed to a life of crime, each other’s company, and not much else. They talked themselves into and out of getting jobs. Between the two of them, what they had liquified and withdrawn before fleeing the city, they had enough money to last them for a long while.

Joan considered going back to school, but the thought of long hours in a classroom, after the things she’d seen and done, made her laugh. Ultimately she trashed that idea along with any feeble aspirations of getting a job in town. Like it or not, Sasha was right. They _were_ in hiding, would be in hiding for a while. Maybe forever. Putting herself back on the map was not a risk she was willing to take. Not yet.

The “country”, as he called it, was a better fit for Sasha. He liked looking after her and after the house, made it his full time job. He cooked every night, did the laundry, mowed the lawn, kept a garden. Joan simultaneously envied and admired his ease. Eventually, she found some use for her father’s fishing rods and spent long afternoons by the water, slowly, steadily, reacquainting herself with quiet solitude. It became a private joke of sorts. Miles away from Gotham and she was still an angler. She didn’t always bring home her catch but when she did, she cleaned and prepared the fish herself. It was the closest she came to surgery in months.

They didn’t talk a lot about what had happened and what Joan chose to share was scattered. Memories discolored and bent out of shape with time. Sometimes, on good days, when the sun was strong and the air smelt clean and every breath felt easy, she could trick herself into believing it had all been a bad dream. But then the lingering pain under her ribs would knock her sideways and the scar on her leg would burn with newfound malice, the one the Joker had given her, the same one he had. And she would remember.

She’d catch glimpses of him in herself, shades of his speech or his mannerisms. Old jokes and insults bubbling up in the back of her brain. As though he’d left little jagged pieces of himself behind inside of her. Sometimes she almost hoped he’d reappear, if it only meant he would stop haunting her, if only it would stop the suspense.

And then the letter came.

The envelope was plain, off-white, shuffled in with the bills and a few colorful flyers full of coupons from the local grocery. They’d been in Sawyer for a year by then and the only other bit of contact they’d had from anyone they’d known before was from Mason, who sent the occasional lush-looking postcard from his own hideaway in Cuba where he was enjoying his retirement. So the letter, which arrived without a return address, immediately put her on edge.

It took her a couple weeks to work up the courage to read it. In the meantime, she kept it stashed under the mattress like a dirty secret, swore she could feel it poking her in the back while she tossed and turned at night. And then, on a bright Sunday morning, while Sasha was in town, she poured herself a stout glass of whiskey and opened it.

It took some work to parse out his handwriting, clumped and careless as it was, but eventually, Joan got the general idea.

The Joker was still in Arkham, under strict supervision. He still hadn’t been properly evaluated to stand trial, although he explained the good doctors were trying their best ( _But they don’t have your bedside manner_ ). The letter had been smuggled out with the help of a guard; plenty of whom, he explained, were willing to do anything for a greased palm ( _No pun intended, of course, Joanie_ ). He told he hoped there were no hard feelings between them and he assured her the fireworks hadn’t been all that fun anyway.

The ink, she noticed, got darker at that part of the message, the paper ridged with the force of his words. As though writing it had made him angry.

He asked her to tell _loverboy_ he said hello, promised he was thinking of her. The bottom of the letter was signed just like the note from the hospital - simply, _J_.

She read the letter through several times, pausing only to refill her drink. With each new pass, her pulse spiked and then steadied, as though her body couldn’t decide whether or not to be afraid. His message was short, sinister, disturbingly casual. The way he always was with her. Like they were old friends. And in a way, Joan supposed, they were.

He knew - or at least, someone who worked for him knew - where she lived. The comment about Sasha could have been an educated guess, but she wouldn’t be surprised if he was having her watched. At that thought, she suddenly calmed. Folded the letter into its envelope and took it with her back into the bedroom.

She could feel her need for control, familiar and seductive, itching at the base of her skull. Another old friend. But she put aside thoughts of burning the letter and the house along with it. She didn’t try to figure out what the Joker wanted from her or what he wanted her to do with the small bomb he’d launched into her new life.

Instead, she slipped the letter into a book on the shelf beside her bed and went back into the kitchen. Instead, she thought about what she wanted - not what she needed to do or what she had to do, to dam the panic and fury - but what she wanted.

And she wanted to finish her drink. To empty the dishwasher. To call the cat in from the yard for lunch. To greet Sasha at the door when he came home and help him unload the groceries and listen to him gripe about the craggy old bitch who ran the general store. To work up the courage to tell him she loved him. To visit the place where her father was buried beside her mother, to see the grave he used to take her to when she was a child. To breathe without the grip of fear in her chest.

The rest of it wasn’t up to her - whether or not more letters would come, what they might promise, the pain and the dread and the death that hovered just beyond. The fetid offal of her memories and her nightmares.

But these things were. And what she wanted most of all was to take herself out of play. To take what was hers, the peace that was owed her, on the porch, by the water, in the house where she finally felt safe.

Gordon had been right - it was her story after all.

So she let the letter gather dust on her bookshelf. Never wrote back. Kept the others alongside the first when they eventually came and slept mostly sound between Sasha and her mounting pile of secrets. She’d tell him one day, maybe, when they were another hundred miles from Sawyer, when she was ready to step back into the life she’d left behind.

But for now, she had her peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the end (for now? maybe?) folks. thank you all for coming along on this ride with me. I love Joan and Sasha more than I can possibly enunciate and I hope you all do too. I'll be posting a "deleted scene" soon - something I wrote between the Joker/Joan that I just couldn't scrap completely and figured could stand on its own - so keep an eye out for that. Happy Holidays ppl. xoxo

**Author's Note:**

> i've been writing this for the last 8 years i swear.  
> anybody still obsessed with Ledger's Joker? shouts out to y'all xo


End file.
